


Like a Steel Trap

by missigma



Category: DCU
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Kidnapping, M/M, On the Run, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 17:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11422275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missigma/pseuds/missigma
Summary: A young Bruce Wayne travels to Metropolis to try to gather more information about a mysterious new hero, Superman. After his first attempt—questioning reporter Clark Kent in his hotel room—proves fruitless, he returns to his original plan to meet the man himself. Long aware of a kidnapping plot, Bruce allows himself to be taken captive in hopes that Superman will rescue him. While Superman does make an appearance, nothing else goes according to plan.





	Like a Steel Trap

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for Superbat Big Bang 2017!
> 
> My teammate [Batdad/mizgoat](http://batdad.tumblr.com/) has produced [a beautiful piece of artwork](http://batdad.tumblr.com/post/162680308373/sigmasbbb) to complement this fic. Thank you, Batdad, for your work on this! It's always amazing to see scenes that I've written be brought to life.
> 
> I'd also like to thank my beta reader, dipkipp ([tumblr](http://dippkip.tumblr.com/) | [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dippkip/pseuds/dippkip)) for checking my grammar (including my abuse of commas) and providing advice on more structural elements I was uncertain about. It was very reassuring to be able to ask you about those issues.
> 
> Any additional errors (and questionable characterizations) are mine. Hope all of you enjoy this!
> 
> p.s. This is tentatively set after the events of Batman: Zero Year and the first arc of New 52 Action Comics. Some references are made to things that happened in that universe, but you don't need to read those comics in order to understand what's going on. This is not necessarily universe specific.

  
  
[View full image here](http://batdad.tumblr.com/post/162680308373/sigmasbbb)  


It was already several minutes past the start of the press conference when Clark got to his subway stop, leaving him to shoulder his way impatiently through the crowded platform. He cringed as he bumped into a man dawdling near the escalators and hunched in on himself, over-conscious of his own strength.

Bruce Wayne rarely showed at Wayne Enterprises’ press conferences. Since his reappearance little over a year ago, the man often avoided the press, save for a few, targeted grabs at the spotlight every month. The infrequency of opportunity alone led to a feverish crush whenever he did turn up, a scramble of media, bystanders and Wayne Enterprises insiders.

Clark knew this from watching the raw tape of his last presser, archived on the website of a local station. He had thought that it would prepare him for the atmosphere today.

However, today was far, far worse as it was the date of Wayne’s first official visit to Metropolis. The Daily Planet had been anticipating his arrival for weeks, and Clark had been assigned the puzzle of speculating exactly what it was that Wayne would announce today. He had already been running late, since the first train that passed his station was already too full to let him on. 

When he finally stepped out into the crowded plaza, Clark found his tardiness hardly mattered, as the conference had not yet started. The crowd of journalists were already near the makeshift stage, most standing huddled over their phones, while others chatted amongst themselves.

The stage itself was completely empty--not one of the scheduled guests had bothered to appear. Officially, there was no notice that the presser had been delayed, and there was no one official to ask. That left the journalists only to wait. 

The weather threatened to turn against them early, the sky the marbled grey of autumn that promised rain. Every few minutes, someone would look up at the ominous sliver of sky visible above them. They huddled closer, mood turning darker as time wore on.

Checking his phone, Clark soon found that it was Bruce Wayne himself who was delayed. The whisper of rumor soon caught his ear, that supposedly Wayne’s jet had left Gotham City two hours behind schedule. 

Behind him, Clark heard the vaguely familiar voice of a man who had graduated in his class at Metropolis University. He worked for the Star now, and despite the familiarity, Clark couldn’t quite remember his name. He didn’t quite want to either, not as his gossip turned more salacious by the second.

“What excuse do you think we’ll get? I’ve heard he’s told some good ones back in Gotham.”

“Model or movie star?” the woman beside him replied, the knowing smile in her voice a touch too dark. She hitched her Metropolis Public Radio bag higher on her shoulder, then rocked back on her heels. 

“One of each.” His former classmate chuckled to himself. Deliberately, Clark shut out their gossip.

Temptation nipped at Clark as he contemplated using his powers to scan around him. From here, he could check to see if Wayne had even landed yet. He had better things to do than simply stand and wait until Wayne deigned to show his face or had the decency to cancel. He could spend the time working; Perry expected more from him today than just a write up of this press conference. And beyond that, there was always someone in Metropolis who needed him, always something, and he would only have to be away for a moment, only until Wayne arrived. 

Clark crossed his arms and tamped down that urge. Patience, however unsatisfying, would better suit him. He would not risk missing a press conference he had spent the entire week preparing for. There was no reason why he couldn’t wait here like everyone else.

Shortly, his resolve was rewarded. A dozen men and women filtered onto the stage, each wearing a badge marked with the “W” of the Wayne Enterprise logo. They were soon followed by two Metropolis city councilmen, ushered up into the chairs at the back of the stage by a Wayne employee. 

The media took notice, lifting their cameras, preparing for Wayne’s entrance. They pushed forwards, clumping at the front of the stage, holding just short of outright shoving. Clark pulled his recorder from his bag and stood still, waiting. 

Two sleek black cars eased into the alleyway behind the stage, parting a gaggle of security guards. Wayne stepped out of the second, buttoning up his slate-grey jacket. As he reached the stage, he turned on a dazzling smile, shaking hands with each employee and council member who waited in line to receive him. He made sure to make real connections here, spending special time with the politicians.

He was taller than Clark had realized, having the advantage in height over almost everyone on the stage. Clark guessed he was a little over six feet. He was broadly built, his shoulders wide enough under his suit to speak of real physical power. 

Clark had heard stories about that, tales that Wayne liked to spin about dabbling in virtually every extremely dangerous sport there was to speak of. He usually used that to excuse his many odd and varied injuries, but whatever truth there was to the stories, his eccentric pursuits had clearly also served to build his body into an incredible state of fitness.

Excusing himself from his conversation, Wayne turned towards the crowd. He paused behind the lectern that had been assembled, then stepped around it, choosing instead to stand near the front of the stage. “Never been much for formality,” he offered, and there was an almost mocking edge to the laughter that sounded around him. He smiled affably, aware that the joke was on him, before beginning.

No apology for his lateness came. Instead, Wayne spun a story of a marriage of two cities, of the benefits of working together. It was all incredibly poetic, but it boiled down to the simple idea that Wayne Enterprises was looking to expand into Metropolis, to establish its own research laboratory here. 

While Clark continued to hold his recorder out, his mind began to wander. Despite the unfriendly crowd, annoyed by both the weather and the wait, Wayne was easily able to win their attention. He spoke well, making connections with the crowd, and praising those he would depend on to get his project approved. 

Pacing out to the edge of the stage, he finally stopped. “I’ll take a few questions.”

The relative calm and quiet of the crowd was abruptly broken. More than two dozen journalists raised their hands, some already shouting their queries. Clark raised his hand too, briefly using his height to put himself above the others in the crowd.

Unexpectedly, Wayne’s ice-blue eyes came to rest on him first. He gave him a quick once over, from his barely tamed curls all the way down to his scuffed leather boots. “Kent, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Clark cleared his throat, taken off guard by the fact that Wayne knew him by name. That revelation alone made him anxious, though it was easy enough to explain. Maybe Wayne had been reading his articles. From there it would be easy enough to find the employee photo of him online, slump-shouldered behind his thick-framed glasses. It wasn’t unusual enough that he should be concerned.

“Well?” Wayne prompted impatiently.

Clark glanced down at his notebook. “Will you be partnering with any technology firms in Metropolis?”

“We’re still in talks with our partners here in Metropolis over the details, so I can’t say.”

“Does that include LexCorp?”

Wayne had already moved on, ignoring Clark’s follow-up. He picked out the reporter from the public radio station with a nod in her direction.

It was half an hour before Wayne left the podium, giving one last wave and flash of his teeth for the cameras. Then he retreated, making his way back to the city council members, leaning close for conversation.

Clark turned his back, waiting for the crowd to begin to disperse. Slowly, they began to filter out, starting towards the train and the row of news vans parked up on the sidewalk. Clark ducked into the alleyway, hoping to skirt most of the crowd. 

“Kent.” His name and a hand on his shoulder held him back. Clark turned to find Wayne behind him, his smile somewhat shrunken. “I’d like to talk.”

“Now?” The word left his mouth before Clark had the chance to consider how rude he sounded. The question felt perfectly justified as they stood in the alleyway, just yards away from a line of dumpsters. Clark was uncertain that he was even worth Wayne’s time, with very few major interviews under his belt as it was. Attempting to recover, he glanced nervously at the gloomy sky. “I’m not sure this is the best place for that.”

Wayne’s smile did not fade in the face of his skepticism. His hand remained on his shoulder, steady and strong. “We can go back to my hotel, if you’d like.”

Chewing his tongue, Clark considered the offer. Professionally, he didn’t feel like he could turn down the opportunity, though he was not yet certain just what Wayne’s angle was. 

“Okay,” Clark eventually assented. He allowed himself to be steered towards Wayne’s car, through the first few raindrops of the approaching storm.

* * *

While Clark Kent had written, often scathingly, about Wayne Enterprises in the preceding weeks, that was not how Bruce had learned his name. He knew it because Kent was his only lead, as one of two journalists who had interviewed Superman.

As for the other reporter, well, Bruce had tried to speak with her once. For a brief moment, he thought Bruce Wayne’s charms were enough, that all it took to win her over was his attention and some flattery. However, as soon as he steered the conversation towards Superman, Lois Lane saw through him in a instant.

He held hope that Clark Kent was different. While in writing, he was as forceful and powerful as Lane, in person he was unsure of himself. Bruce could not quite trace the source of that anxiety, and had nothing beyond a gut feeling he was not willing to trust alone. To him, it seemed that Kent was trying to hide himself behind thick frames and ill-fitting clothes, as if he was afraid of his own stature.

Currently, Kent sat hunched in the seat beside him, wrinkling his already rumpled blue-checked shirt. The relatively spacious interior of the car was not quite enough to accommodate his remarkable height, forcing him to duck down, or risk grazing his head against the roof. He had been uncomfortable ever since the driver had shut the door behind him, picking at the fraying strap of his messenger bag.

“Where are you from?” Bruce crossed his legs and cocked his head, trying for conversation.

“Kansas.” Kent looked up from his bag, blue eyes seeming only to grow colder from the question. Without even trying, Bruce had already landed on a sensitive spot, a rather odd one seeing that most people from Metropolis were from somewhere else, other cities, states and countries. 

Friendliness was clearly only serving to make Kent more and more suspicious of his intentions. Bluntly, Bruce tried to confirm that assumption. “You don’t like me, do you, Kent?”

No denial came. Instead, Kent pulled his bag into his lap, as if to shield himself from him. “I’m here to do my job, Mr. Wayne.”

He must be worried this was a come on. Bruce looked sideways at him. Not without reason, because Kent was attractive enough, with sharp cheekbones and a sculpted jaw, contrasted with wide, earnest eyes. And, after all, Bruce Wayne did have bit of a reputation involving young, attractive journalists.

Forcing himself to see this from Kent’s point of view, Bruce took a second look at the situation. To a reporter, especially one as inexperienced as Kent, whisking him off in his car with no real explanation would seem like he was making a pass at him. For Bruce Wayne, it was an expression of his wealth so natural he scarcely thought about it. 

Sighing, Bruce leaned a few inches closer, his elbow on the armrest between them. “I’m not trying to buy you.”

Kent met his gaze, eyes still guarded. “Then what do you want?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, in exchange for giving you an interview.”

“What kind of questions?”

“I’d like to know more about your Superman story.” He watched Kent frown and did his best to sweeten the deal. “I’d be more than willing to answer any questions you might have. Things you might want to know about Wayne Enterprises’ expansion. Or,” he smiled flirtatiously, testing the waters, “about me.”

Kent’s cheeks colored, and for a few seconds Bruce darkly wondered how much further he could push him before he would revolt. Then, Kent controlled himself, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I don’t think the story is anything you’d really be interested in. It’s much more boring than you’d think. Maybe we could-”

“It’s a deal.” Bruce clapped him on his shoulder before the door swung open.

Bruce paused on the sidewalk outside the hotel, waiting for Kent to follow. Dragging the strap of his bag over his shoulder, Kent clambered out after him. The clatter of camera shutters began, and though Bruce had been ready for the onslaught, he saw Kent flinch at the sudden storm of sound.

Quickly, they slipped through the side door and into the hotel. Bruce led them down one gold-carpeted hallway, towards the elevators. Their route took them within sight of the lobby, where a few patrons loitered, cell phones out.

“Are we going to your room?” Kent twisted the strap of his bag as they waited for an elevator. 

Pausing a moment, Bruce glanced over at him. “Yes.”

The elevator chimed, doors sliding open. Bruce stepped inside, but Kent did not yet join him. He hesitated just outside the elevator, visibly biting his tongue. 

One hand outstretched, Bruce held the door for him. Now, he took his time looking Kent over, making sure he felt his eyes travel over every inch of his body. Eyes flicking back up to Kent’s, Bruce offered a thin smile. “You don’t have anything to worry about. You’re not really my type.”

He intended the statement to be equal parts reassuring and degrading. There wasn’t much truth to it, because while Kent probably wasn’t Bruce Wayne’s type, Bruce found it difficult to say the same. 

The tops of Kent’s ears turned pink, but he grudgingly followed Bruce inside. He leaned against the back of the elevator, arms braced on the railing behind him. His rolled-up sleeves bared muscular forearms and broad, powerful hands.

With a swipe of his key card, Bruce took them to the top floor. There, he led him to the door at the end of the hallway, and let Kent into his suite. 

As he stepped inside, Kent looked around in unconcealed wonder at the open space. His wide eyes skimmed over the luxury, the richly upholstered furniture, the fine artwork, and instead settled on the large window that overlooked the city center. Slowly, he approached the window, seeming to forget Bruce entirely as he looked out over the city.

Bruce stepped into the room, making his way towards the liquor cabinet that stood at the far side of the sitting room. At the sound of his feet on the hardwood floor, Kent abruptly remembered himself. He turned back to Bruce, who offered him a small smile. “Nice view, isn’t it?” Bruce held his gaze for a few seconds longer than appropriate, before disengaging. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Water, please.” Kent followed him into the sitting room, hesitantly stepping onto the hand-woven carpet. 

Bruce ran his tongue along his teeth, fighting a smirk. He should have expected nothing less from Kent. Obligingly, he shoveled ice, then poured water into a glass, before preparing his own drink.

“Thank you.” Kent smiled tentatively at him as he handed over his water. His eyes lingered on the two fingers of liquor in Bruce’s own glass. 

Kent took a quick gulp of his water, then set the glass down on a coaster. “Is it alright if I record?”

“Go ahead,” Bruce waved his hand. Unbuttoning his jacket, he stretched out on the couch, shoes up on the cushions while Kent set up his digital recorder. After carefully setting the battered contraption on the coffee table, Kent chose to perch at the edge of the nearest armchair. 

Flipping through a tattered notebook, he soon found the page he was looking for. “Mr. Wayne-” he began, eyes still fixed on his notes. Bruce raised an eyebrow at his formality.

“‘Bruce’ is fine.” 

Kent chewed at his lip, as if flustered by the early interruption. He looked up from his notebook, eyes hard, and Bruce realized that the emotion he had caught was not embarrassment, but annoyance.

“Bruce,” Kent corrected himself, frustration bleeding into his voice. He held Bruce’s gaze as he continued, no longer bothering to read from his notes. “Other tech and research firms in Metropolis have recently had problems with security. There’ve been thefts and several experiments have gone wrong. Will Wayne Enterprises be providing its own security for the proposed facility?”

It was a decent, but boring question. Bruce sunk a bit further into the cushions as he replied, “Yes, that’s in the proposed budget.”

“Can you give me a breakdown of that budget?”

“Not until it’s been finalized to be sent to the Metropolis City Council. And certainly not off the top of my head; I’m not too good with numbers.” Bruce tipped his glass up to his lips. Kent opened his mouth to speak, but Bruce cut him off. “I think it’s my turn now, so tell me, how did you meet Superman?”

Kent pressed his lips together, frowning at him. Grudgingly, he began, “I was on the roof of the Planet building-”

“Just enjoying the view?” Turning his head to the right, Bruce could see the old building, marked by the gaudy golden globe spinning on its roof.

“It was the day Brainiac attacked the city, so it had the best view of what was happening,” Kent clarified impatiently. “One of the shockwaves hit the Planet building, and I fell. Superman rescued me.” He paused, taking another swallow of his water. “A while later, he contacted me. He wanted to do an interview, to explain why he had come to Metropolis.”

“He talks to Lois Lane though too, right?” Bruce watched tension straighten Kent’s back. “She writes about him more than you do. Seems almost-” he hesitated to give the final word bite, “infatuated.”

Leaving the bait hanging in the air, Bruce carefully observed every reaction it got him, idly swirling his glass. Kent gritted his teeth, clearly aware of the trap. He took his time in replying, measuring his words. “I’m not going to speak for her, but I will tell you, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sorry,” Bruce shrugged in mock-apology, before feigning another swallow of his drink. “I just saw the picture online and knew they’d kissed. I thought it was obvious to assume-”

“I didn’t agree to talk about Lois.” Bruce had found another sensitive topic, though he could not pinpoint just what it was that led to Kent’s defensiveness. If he was generous, he could explain it away as any number of things, though currently he was leaning towards jealousy.

“Alright, next question.” Bruce relented, allowing the topic to be dismissed.

“Four months ago, experimental technology was stolen from Wayne Enterprises and used in a bank robbery. How can-”

“That was-” Bruce tried to cut in, but Kent held his ground and even raised his voice as he continued.

“How can you assure Metropolis that such a breach won’t take place here?”

Bruce stared at him for a few seconds, a vaguely amused smile on his lips. Kent had far more spine than he had thought, a revelation which made him infinitely more interesting. Purposely patronizing, Bruce tipped his head back against the cushions and recited a practiced line to the ceiling. “As I’ve explained before, Wayne Enterprises have since put into effect procedures to track and limit access to technology under development. We have also made a commitment to be more open with investors about potential breaches.”

“The breach was disclosed by the GCPD, not Wayne Enterprises. That doesn’t really inspire much confidence in your openness.”

Flatly ignoring Kent’s last comment, Bruce lifted his head. “Why don’t you like talking about Superman?”

Kent did not pause to think. “I think there’s more important stories out there.”

“More important than understanding the motivations of a seemingly invincible alien who’s adopted your city?” Bruce quirked an eyebrow at him. Kent struggled to reply, which allowed him to continue. “The Superman story could be the story of your career. There’s no reason to be ashamed of it.”

Openly glaring at him, Kent bit back. “I’ve been working as a journalist for just over a year. I’m not planning my legacy yet.” He raised his chin and sat upright. He was indeed taller than Bruce, and more than willing to show his size when angry. “I think that’s something you can understand. I’m sure you must get tired of fielding questions about Batman.”

“Batman? You’re really reaching there.” The sudden turn in the conversation had Bruce on instant alert. He suspected that Kent had only raised the topic to annoy him, that he knew full well that Bruce disliked talking about Batman. Still, he leaned closer, not yet ready to let his guard down.

The smirk that Kent delivered further convinced him that he was purposely prodding him out of frustration. Still, he knew his facts. “The Gotham Gazette has reported that Batman has been seen using prototypes of Wayne Enterprises technology. Have you been supporting a vigilante using your investors’ funds?”

Really, Kent had given him very little of interest so far, and his increasing defensiveness made it unlikely that Bruce would find much more cooperation from him. There was no point in wasting further time here.

Pushing himself up off the couch, Bruce found a new seat on the coffee table. He leaned over to pause the recorder, before belatedly asking, “Can we speak off the record?”

Kent bit at the inside of his cheek, then set his pen down. “Alright.”

Bruce slid to the very edge of the table, barely inches from Kent. “Off the record, I have no reason to use shareholder’s money to do something I already have more than enough resources to do myself.”

“So, you are supporting him?” Kent fished for a full-throated confirmation, shifting forwards the last few inches he could while remaining in his chair. His knees knocked against Bruce’s thigh, but he ignored the contact, his eyes intent on Bruce.

He came up empty.

“It was good talking to you, Kent.” Bruce plastered a smile to his face and squeezed at Kent’s shoulders, overly familiar. Through his shirt, he felt solid muscle.

As soon as Bruce released him, Kent slumped back in his seat. For a few seconds, he visibly struggled with his disappointment at a story slipping away, holding the spark of his temper back between grinding teeth.

Kent exhaled. “It’s Clark.”

“I’m sorry?” Bruce frowned distractedly at him. He pushed himself to his feet, hands on his knees. Turning away, he started to button his jacket.

“It’s-” He nearly gave up halfway through. Then, firmly, he clarified. “My name is Clark.”

Though Bruce had considered this conversation over only a few seconds before, he found himself turning back to him. Clark had a remarkable ability to grab and hold his interest, both due to the inconsistencies in how he carried himself and a rawer, baser fascination. 

“Clark, then.” Bruce shifted closer to him, their legs meeting in an awkward puzzle of knees, shins and feet. “Are you angry with me?”

“You know damn well that you haven’t given me a thing I can use.”

“Then I’m sorry for wasting your time.” Bruce smiled into the fire growing in his eyes, coaxing at that tiny flame. He braced himself with one hand on the back of Clark’s chair and took his chin in his hand. Forcing his head back, Bruce ducked down to crush their mouths together.

Clark started when their lips touched, mouth already half-open in surprise. Their teeth clacked together before Clark relaxed, tilting his head so that they could better kiss. 

It was hardly the reaction Bruce expected. He had hoped to give him that last little push to lose his temper, to get a chance to see just what it was that he was hiding. He had thought his chances of being punched in the jaw were better than 2-to-1. Instead, he found that Clark was more than willing to channel his frustration with him into more productive pursuits.

It was a welcome diversion to have Clark open up to his mouth. His hands came up, twisting at Bruce’s lapels, pulling him in. Bruce’s mind wandered as he openly touched Clark now, abandoning all pretense of this simply being a test. 

Clark curled his tongue against his, and Bruce moaned softly into his mouth. Clark’s fingers slid up the back of Bruce’s neck, skimming the short hair at the nape. Panting slightly, Bruce drew back and struggled to drag himself back into character.

“Clark.” Bruce let a sly smile unfold, though he knew he was too short of breath to pull off the intended effect. “I’ll remember that in case we ever meet…” He let his eyes trail down Clark’s body, lips to neck to chest to groin, “off the record.”

Clark gaped at him for a few seconds, breathless and disheveled. He ran a hand through his hair. “Your lines are _terrible_ .”

His rending frankness startled a very real laugh out of Bruce. Whatever people said about him behind his back, it was rare to have someone say the same to his face. “I probably should get some new material,” he admitted. Clark quirked his lips up, still resting with his head against the back of the chair. 

Seeming to suddenly come back to himself, Clark began to gather his things. “I should go,” he explained, somewhere between uncertain and apologetic. 

“Would you like a ride back to the Planet?”

“Thanks, really, but I’ll find my own way.” Clark found his feet, shoving his notebook and recorder back into his bag.

As he watched Clark leave, he wondered if he would tell the story to his friends, and add another tale to Bruce Wayne’s sordid mythos. However much he would have liked to see Clark again, it would have been cruel for Bruce to promise to see him tonight, knowing that he could not honor that pledge.

* * *

“How was he?”

“I’m sorry?” Clark spluttered, spinning around in his office chair to find Lois standing behind him.

“You didn’t sleep with Wayne, did you?”

“No!” Clark flushed scarlet.

“Thank _god_ .” Lois found her usual place on his desk, sitting—ankles crossed—on top of his notes. “Sorry, I heard you went up to his room and feared the worst.”

“No. He wanted to talk about Superman.” Then, confused, Clark asked, “How did you know about that?”

“Kat.” Her name alone was more than enough of an answer, but Lois continued, “While she was working on her column she found a picture online of you two together that someone took in the lobby.”

“Oh,” Clark cringed. He could guess what the picture might look like and knew it wouldn’t be flattering. He imagined the photo, a bit blurred by distance, showing Bruce leaning out of the elevator, sly and sleazy, with himself staring dumbly at him.

Luckily, Lois was sympathetic. “I should have told you, he’s obsessed with Superman. When I was in Gotham last spring, he tried to get me to tell him all about how I met Superman. He was very charming, until he figured out that I wasn’t going to tell him what he wanted. After that, he didn’t give a damn about me.”

Clark didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know, but the question tugged uncomfortably at him. “Did you, you know-”

Lois laughed lightly. “No. He was far more interested in Superman than sex.”

“He uh-” Clark almost lost his nerve halfway through his admission. “He kissed me.”

“What?” Lois squinted at him as if she had never seen him before. “He _kissed_ you?”

Her incredulity was hardly flattering, but timidly Clark nodded. “Yeah.”

“What happened?”

Clark squirmed at her suddenly sharp focus. “Um, well, we didn’t really get along. I guess he realized I wasn’t going to tell him much about Superman, and he was kind of unhelpful himself. I got close to losing my temper after he decided to cut the interview short. Then he kissed me.”

“So, you went straight from arguing to kissing?” Lois frowned at him, looking for a more satisfying answer.

“Basically.” Clark still felt as lost as she looked. “It was like he was testing me, like he wanted to see how I’d react.”

Mercifully, Lois did not flat out ask whether he had enjoyed it. Instead, she carefully softened her voice. “Are you going to see him again?”

Clark laughed, turning back towards his computer. “I don’t think so. He tried to feed me a bad line about seeing me again, but I don’t think he meant it.”

“Do you like him?”

Clark ducked his head, feeling heat rush to his cheeks once more. He hesitated, before finally admitting, “He’s uh—good looking.”

Lois leaned back, arms stretched out behind her as she assessed him. “Well, you certainly got farther than I did.” Jumping down from his desk, she dropped her voice conspiratorially low. “I promise not to tell Kat if you tell me what happens next time you see him.”

* * *

At eleven o’clock, Bruce stood in the bedroom of his suite. He had emptied all his gadgets out of his pockets, removing every item that could trace back to Batman. Tonight, he intended to be fully Bruce Wayne.

That meant a new suit with no hidden pockets in its lining and a watch that had not other function than to tell time. The heels of his shoes did not pop loose, did not conceal any vials of anti-toxins. He carried no lock picks, no batarangs, no smoke pellets.

Bruce was planning to be abducted. 

He had found the kidnapping plot hidden in the encrypted partition of a hard drive he had relieved from a human trafficking outfit in Gotham. The message described in simple, coded terms a specific visitor to Metropolis they wished to hold for ransom.

Over several weeks, Bruce had monitored their communications, sent back and forth from Metropolis to Gotham through an encrypted messenger. As he followed the conversation, he had become more and more convinced of the identity of their potential victim.

The first message had been sent just hours after Bruce Wayne’s visit to Metropolis had been announced. The proposed date and time of their operation exactly coincided with the time he would be there. It was clear their target was Bruce himself.

It would be easy to deal with the kidnappers on his own, to have Batman descend on Metropolis for a single night. Even a simple, anonymous tip to Metropolis PD should be enough to ensure his safety. 

However, Bruce did not see his potential kidnapping as a threat--instead, he saw it as an opportunity. If Bruce Wayne was kidnapped in Metropolis, that would draw the attention of the whole city, perhaps even the country. It should be more than enough to draw out Metropolis’ patron hero, Superman. 

Superman had been a singular subject of interest to Bruce ever since his first appearance in Metropolis. Though sightings of him were largely confined to the city, it was clear that he possessed abilities so powerful that he had the potential to affect the whole world. 

Very little was known about him, beyond the pitched battles he had fought against invading aliens and twisted science experiments. There were scattered accounts from the citizens he had rescued, pulled from train wrecks, apartment fires, and out of the paths of extradimensional creatures. He never said more than a dozen words to them, though everyone he encountered said he was kind.

As the few journalists who had spoken to him had no interest in offering further insight, Bruce had no other choice but to go straight to the source. Even the few minutes alone that a rescue might afford him, that should be enough to judge the nature of the potential threat. 

Bruce paused at the door of his room, standing on the precipice. Once more, he sifted through the all the possible scenarios and potential threats.

He was confident that he was only risking his own life, and no others. Either Superman would rescue him, or Bruce himself would escape long before there was any threat of law enforcement coming to harm. 

After all, these men were only interested in the money. Bruce had _that_ in excess.

Just outside the door to his suite, Bruce called his driver. Arriving early downstairs would mean waiting, likely alone, at the curb. Those minutes would give anyone more than enough time to accost him.

He shared the elevator with a man who spoke animatedly into his phone, held a few inches from his mouth to compensate for the volume. 

“Yeah, I’m in the elevator now. I’ll be down in just a second.” He paused. “Okay, see you.”

There were only a few seconds of silence as he dialed another number. As he again lifted the phone to his ear, Bruce caught sight of the shoulder holster hidden under his coat.

“Hey,” the man smiled thinly at the opposite wall as his call was picked up. He shifted back into the corner of the elevator, Bruce in front of him.

The door opened with a soft chime. Bruce stepped out, quickly making his way past the gleaming white marble monolith that served as the front desk and out the automatic doors. The dull chatter of the man echoed behind him as he paused at the curb. 

The turnaround at the front of the hotel was half underground, and no amount of gold-colored plating on the doors, or glittering sculpture just outside, resting in a bed of dark green vines, could make the space feel any less like a parking garage. 

The area beyond the door was dimly lit with the soft orange of sodium lamps. They reflected in the glossy black finish of the single vehicle that sat in the turnaround, a large SUV. Its driver stood at the curb, his keys in his hand. And though his polo and khakis might lead anyone else to believe he was only a tourist in Metropolis, Bruce could see the talons of a raptor on his bicep, barely visible below the sleeve of his shirt. He nodded a greeting to Bruce, then acknowledged the man from the elevator. 

“Hey, you get us checked out?”

Forcing his face into a smile, Bruce returned the gesture. He paced down the curb, closer to the loading dock just around the corner from the front door. There in the shadows at the foot of the ramp sat another SUV, identical to the first. All its lights were off, and it was too dark for Bruce to see if anyone sat inside.

Bruce made a show of checking his phone as he turned his back to the loading dock. This was just a phone, one that only Bruce Wayne used. A notification popped up, and he flicked open the message. 

As he stared dumbly at the screen, the second SUV came surging up from the loading dock, lights on. It screeched to halt just in front of Bruce. Bruce looked up, brow furrowed in practiced confusion, and three masked men piled out of it.

“What’s going on?” Bruce backed up, allowing disbelief and a shade of fear into his voice. He glanced back at the would-be tourists, looking for aid.

The man in the polo grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slammed him into the side of the SUV. His face and chest crushed against cold metal, Bruce twisted. Throwing his weight to the side, he pulled at his grasp, taking care to not use enough force to break his grip. He carefully measured each movement, so that he would not show his true strength.

Another man seized him, holding him with one hand at the back of his neck, the other at his wrist. 

Even now, barely able to move from his place pinned against the side of the vehicle, his mind spun through the possibilities of an escape. Bruce could fight them, really fight them, if he wanted. He had absolute confidence in his abilities, was certain that he could take them all down with minimal injury to himself.

Surrender was more difficult than he had imagined.

A syringe pricked his skin, and Bruce no longer had to pretend to be overwhelmed by the men around him. The fog of unconsciousness quickly overcame him, leaving him with only a few blurred images as he was bundled into the vehicle. 

* * *

It was almost impressive that Bruce Wayne managed to end up in the tabloids after only one night in Metropolis. Frowning, Clark scanned Kat’s story, a rundown of all the events that Bruce had managed to skip just in the space of late last night and early this morning. An exclusive party, two meetings at Wayne Enterprises’ Metropolis office and an appearance on a local morning show. As Bruce’s publicist naturally refused to comment, only rumours could be offered as explanation. Perhaps Bruce Wayne had met someone and not gotten out of bed since. He had last been spotted at his hotel after all.

Grimacing, Clark shut his eyes, before hurriedly closing the article. He instead drew up his own projects for the day, then spent the morning trying to catch up on his email. Head down, he did his best to ignore the growing buzz of the newsroom, until finally, Lois resumed her perch on his desk.

“Did you see?” She rocked back, her eagerness edging close to something morbid. She clutched a pen and notebook in her hand, the page already half-full.

“See what?” Clark barely looked up from his monitor.

“The Bruce Wayne video. Check your phone, Smallville.”

“Did he finally show up?”

“ _Check your phone_ .”

At her insistence, Clark picked up his phone. A dozen notifications crowded the screen, mostly headlines with Bruce’s name. He tapped the likeliest source, a breaking news alert that bore the headline: “Ransom video released in Wayne kidnapping.” 

The video opened with white letters on a black background, a demand. _500 million. Details on payment will be provided to the board of Wayne Enterprises. Delivery expected within 24 hours. Any law enforcement intervention and he will die._

The message hung ominously on the screen for ten seconds, before being replaced by a room with a white backdrop. Seated in the center, slumped forwards, was Bruce Wayne.

A masked man walked into the frame, pulling Bruce’s head back by his hair. Bruce was unable to offer much resistance with his hands pinned behind his back. The cameraman moved closer as his face came into the light.

Bruce had clearly been beaten. His lips and chin were ringed with dried blood, and the collar of his shirt was stained with the same dark red hue. He squinted up at the camera, one eye swollen so badly he could barely see out of it.

The cameraman grabbed his chin, holding him still for a good shot from the camera, face illuminated by a harsh fluorescent glow. Bruce gritted his teeth, but did not pull away during the few remaining seconds that the camera focused on him.

Clark did not put his phone down until the video ended, replaced by a black frame. “That’s…” he trailed off, looking searchingly up at Lois, uncertain what response she was expecting.

Lois’ face softened and she leaned forwards, closer to Clark. “It’s a rough video, even if he is an asshole.” She gently laid her hand over the back of his arm. “I came by because I wanted to know if you noticed anything while you were with him yesterday.”

Still somewhat stunned by the video, Clark shook his head vaguely. “Nothing concrete.”

“Nothing at all?” Lois probed hopefully.

Clark closed his eyes as he cast back, the entire day thrown into sharp relief. “At the press conference, he had security, but after that, in the car and at the hotel, I didn’t see anyone there protecting him. But I don’t remember anyone suspicious either. Just people gawking at him in the lobby and pretty much everywhere else he went.” Clark could not help but wonder if there had been more he simply had not seen. Perhaps if he had been more alert, if he hadn’t let Bruce get to him then maybe—

“That’s fine.” Lois offered an understanding smile. “Supposedly, he didn’t go missing until around midnight, so there might not have been anything to see earlier.”

Clark looked out across the newsroom. The monitor above Perry’s office was frozen with a frame of Bruce’s face, swollen and bloodied. Beneath it ran a crawl of national news, half the headlines already dedicated to the kidnapping.

“Has law enforcement said anything?”

Lois began to read back through her notes. “Metropolis PD asked the FBI to take over as soon as the video came out. They’re worried that they’ve already taken him out of the state, and possibly out of the country.”

“Is there anything in the video that would help them find him?”

“Not that I’ve heard, but I’m sure they’re working on it.” Lois smoothed the page, before looking back up at him. “The weird thing is, as far as anyone can tell, the kidnappers released the video straight to the media themselves. Not to the Wayne Enterprises board.”

“So you think they have a motive other than money?”

“No one really knows at this point. I mean, Wayne and his company have that kind of money; they could pay the ransom. Still, by putting that video out to the media, they let the police know, which can only make whatever it is that they’re trying to do more difficult.”

Nodding vaguely, Clark pushed his glasses up his nose. He went back to his keyboard, paused, then turned to Lois.

“You okay?”

“I’m going up to the roof.”

Whether Lois understood his meaning, Clark did not know. However, she did not follow him as he ducked into the stairwell and ascended the last few flights to take him outside. He tucked his glasses into his pocket as he strode over to the edge of the roof.

It was clear to him that he could not simply allow the investigation of Bruce’s kidnapping to run its course. It would take too long, and Bruce’s captors had already been cruel to him. 

Their nebulous motives further troubled him. They had already threatened Bruce’s life, and it was frighteningly easy to see any attempted rescue by the police leading to his death. There was no one else who could rescue Bruce as quickly and as safely as he could. 

So, Clark stripped off his checked shirt, showing the brilliant blue t-shirt he wore underneath, emblazoned with his symbol. He unfolded his cape from the place it lay, bunched tight in small of his back. It unfurled in a flurry of crimson as he pushed himself up into the sky.

A thousand feet over Metropolis, Clark paused, levitating in thin air. Letting his eyes close, he let the range of his hearing expand, slowly stretching outwards until it encompassed the entirety of the city. 

He could remember the pattern of Bruce’s heart from the time he had spent alone with him yesterday. There were subtleties of the sound so small that even electronics could not record, allowing him to identify Bruce among millions of heartbeats.

In seconds, Clark found the familiar thump four miles to the east. He glided over the waterfront, already scanning the exterior of the building from which the sound emanated. 

It was an old paper mill, abandoned more than twenty years ago.  Its flimsy metal walls, once painted bright white, had faded to a dull grey. The stench of the pulp still hung around the place, barely diluted by the passage of time. A large black helicopter sat in the empty gravel yard, along the edge of the bay. 

There were thirteen men inside, all but one clustered down at the far end of the factory floor. Their voices echoed in the cavernously empty space of the  production floor , all the equipment long since sold off.

The thirteenth man was Bruce, and he was alone. Clark could see his outline, folded in on himself inside a tiny room in a wing a few hundred feet from his captors.

If he had wished, Clark could have swept inside and returned with Bruce in his arms and his kidnappers none the wiser. However, stealth did not suit Superman. He preferred to confront his foes, to learn who would dare attempt such a brazen kidnapping in Metropolis.

Raising his hands above his head, Clark dropped straight down, his cape billowing up behind him. He punctured the roof feet-first, tearing through shingles and broad wooden beams before finally striking the floor. His descent shook the building, the great splintering crash doubtlessly alerting everyone inside. 

Unfazed, Clark strode purposefully towards the place where he knew Bruce was concealed, ears guiding his progress. He entered an office, the door grinding along the floor as he forced it open. The interior was a mess of chairs, some still standing and others scattered and broken across the floor. One corner was still draped with sheets, splotched dark red at the edges. Clark could smell the copper of blood in the air.

There was another door at the far end of the room, marked in scratched and faded paint as the location of the fire riser. One hand at the handle, the other at the hinges, Clark pulled the door  from its frame and casually tossed it aside. Clark found the light switch just inside the door, and a single fluorescent tube flickered to light.

Blinking, Bruce squinted up at him in the harsh light. The bruising on his face had only grown more vivid through the passage of time, purple pooling dark under his skin. He sat huddled against the sprinkler riser in his shirtsleeves, wrists cuffed around the back, forcing him to awkwardly embrace the thick pipe.

Frowning, Clark quickly scanned him for more serious injuries. He found no fractures to his bones, no wounds that could threaten his life, so he stepped forwards into the tiny room.

“They’re going to be here any second,” was the first thing Bruce said, a hushed warning. Clark could indeed hear Bruce’s captors, all gathering just outside the office, ready for a fight. 

“I can handle them, Mr. Wayne.” Clark leaned in, smiling reassuringly down at him. “I just need you to hold still while I burn through your handcuffs.” 

Bruce nodded slightly, though he barely seemed to relax. Clark put his fingers to his wrist, just below the place where the manacle had scraped and bruised his skin. With practiced precision, he cut the cuffs from Bruce’s hands, moving fast enough that Bruce barely had time to flinch. 

Now free, Bruce slumped back against the wall, arms stiff at his sides. Clark bent down, reaching towards him. “Ready to get out of here?” 

Bruce exhaled quickly, a quiet, relieved little chuckle. “I was beginning to worry you weren’t coming,” he confessed, though there was nothing accusatory in his tone. Bruce allowed Clark to pull him to his feet, hands carefully looped around Bruce’s back. While he could stand, he was slow and unsteady, leaning into Clark’s chest. He wouldn’t be able to run out of here on his own. 

Dipping a hand down to the backs of Bruce’s knees, Clark scooped him up into his arms. Bruce clutched at his shoulder, initially surprised by the gesture. He loosened his grip slightly, as if embarrassed, when Clark glanced down at him, but made no apology. 

Clark made it no more than five strides through the office before Bruce’s captors charged in, all but one wielding semi-automatic pistols. The man who led the charge was wiry with short, dust-colored hair and held an odd-looking rifle.

Moving fast as he could, Clark set Bruce back on his feet. “Stay behind me,” he commanded, before darting in front of him. Bruce stumbled, then braced himself with one hand between Clark’s shoulder blades.

Supremely confident of his own invincibility, Clark faced the leader down. He stood with his hands on his hips, shielding Bruce as best he could with his body. 

The man pointed his rifle at Clark and smiled.

He pulled the trigger, and the gun spit out a thin dart with a sharp crack. Spinning, it flew forwards to embed itself in Clark’s chest, several inches below his heart.

Perplexed, Clark looked down to where the plastic flights of the dart protruded from his chest. He clumsily plucked it free from his flesh and held the thick, emerald needled tip up to light. It dripped with his own blood.

He had only seconds to ponder, bemused, the device that had managed to wound him. Then he felt weakness spread through him, a crushingly sudden loss of his strength.

Pain followed immediately after, punching all the air out of his lungs in on long, trembling exhale. He crumpled forwards, an awful storm of agony rushing through his body. Searing heat swept through his veins, leaving his muscles shaking.

“Superman!” Bruce seized him under his arms, trying to keep him upright. He only managed to slow his fall as momentum brought them both to the floor. He turned Clark onto his back, hands already searching for the wound in his chest. “Superman, can-”

One of the men seized Bruce by his collar, dragging him away. Clark tried to raise himself from the floor, intent on protecting him, but was unable to even lift his head. The man forced Bruce to his knees and stood over him, still gripping at the back of his shirt.

* * *

Bruce kept his eyes on Superman, witness to every excruciating second. He had badly underestimated what these men were capable of, and another man was paying for his mistake.

That man was Clark Kent.

His identity became frustratingly obvious as soon as Bruce came face to face with the man for the second time in 24 hours. Inwardly, Bruce berated himself for not guessing sooner; he knew what both Superman and Kent looked like. Clark’s camouflage, however uninspired in costuming, was strengthened by his performance. Yet, even when confronted with him yesterday, certain that Clark was hiding something from him, Bruce had not been able to fit the pieces together.

He knew Clark’s injury was not caused by a bullet but by a dart. The dart had apparently introduced some extraordinarily painful substance to his body, possibly kryptonite, leaving him lying prone on the floor. It was now clear Bruce’s captors had intended to capture Superman. From what he knew about their operation, Bruce doubted these men could have plotted such a thing alone. Someone else would have had to provide them with the dart and the agent it had delivered.

The crew’s cameraman held Bruce now, his hand resting heavily on the back of Bruce’s neck. He leaned slightly to one side, as if favoring his left leg.

The man Bruce had pinned as the leader, a shorter man with a harsh Gotham accent, parted the ranks of his men. Holstering his handgun, he leaned over Clark, inspecting the damage done by the dart. Clark tried to raise his head, and for a few seconds Bruce thought he might grit out some heroic platitude through his teeth.

Experimentally, the leader kicked at Clark’s side. Invulnerability gone, Clark grunted and tried to recoil. Smirking, the man only drove the toe of his boot into his ribs harder. He repeated the motion, over and over, while Clark only lay there, each blow jolting his body up off the floor.

The result was nothing short of pitiful. The poison that had leached into Superman’s veins had rendered him utterly helpless. He could barely move to react to each impact, much less to defend himself. It was cruelty that served no purpose at all and Bruce could not stand to watch.

Bruce raised himself just enough to kick backwards, slamming his heel into the cameraman’s injured leg. The man howled, his grip on Bruce immediately loosening. Bruce propelled himself upwards. He feinted left, then buried his elbow in the leader’s face. The cartilage of his nose yielded with a satisfying crunch.

The other men leapt towards him, circling him. One seized at his swinging arm. Another clubbed him across the back with the butt of his rifle. Stumbling forwards, Bruce fell when the next blow from the rifle caught him in the head.

A grey haze narrowing his vision, Bruce allowed himself to be pinned against the bare cement. His only aim had been to draw attention away from Clark, knowing that he had no hope of escaping. Having succeeded, he reluctantly surrendered.

“Don’t,” Clark rasped, just a second before solid metal rested against the base of Bruce’s skull. After a muffled grunt as someone struck him, he again fell silent.

“Didn’t think you had it in you to play hero, Wayne.” The leader’s voice was slightly muffled, before he leaned to the side and spat. The bloody spittle landed an inch to the left of Bruce’s cheek. “Were you jealous Superman was getting all the attention?”

Bruce lay completely still, palms pressed flat against the floor. He offered no reply to the taunt as the leader ground the handgun into his skull, against his stinging scalp.

“I want you to understand something, Wayne.” The leader prodded Bruce onto his back, and he came face to face with the muzzle. Bruce flicked his eyes up to look at him, finding a dark satisfaction in the blood that now seeped down his face. “You were bait, and now that the trap has been sprung,” he gestured slightly towards Clark, who appeared barely conscious, “I don’t have much use for you.”

He scrubbed his hand across his face, smearing blood onto his cheek. “You could either be a very nice bonus for me and my boys, or if you make trouble for us again, you could end up dead.” He pointed the gun at Bruce’s forehead. “Do you understand me?”

Bruce nodded slightly, an almost imperceptible inclination of his head.

“Good.”  The leader  backed away from him, a peculiarly intense look on his face. Bruce stayed in his place on the floor, deliberately unthreatening. 

“Cuff and sedate him.”  The man  turned his back and walked out of the room. As Bruce was turned and forced face-first against the floor, he heard his next command. “And get the chopper ready.”

* * *

Gradually, Clark surfaced from the haze of unconsciousness. He found himself in complete darkness, Bruce’s limp body half-sprawled over his. Unused to the blindness pitch blackness brought, Clark hesitantly began to explore his surroundings by touch.

Despite the darkness, he was aware that the space was claustrophobically tight, with no space for him to disentangle himself from Bruce, or even to move from this position, half-curled on his side. There was short, scratchy carpet against his cheek and cool metal above him. The whole compartment lurched forwards, momentum pressing Clark against the back, with Bruce pinned underneath him. It could only be a car trunk.

Far too slowly, his memory returned to him. He recalled being bundled from the helicopter to the back of an SUV, then into the trunk of a large sedan. Now he could only guess how long it had been since they had left Metropolis.

As the acceleration eased, Clark rolled away from Bruce, giving him the barest amount of space that he could. He turned his head, trying to get Bruce’s hair out of his mouth before he spoke. “Bruce?” 

No response came, but Clark had hardly expected any. Since they had been taken from the paper mill, Bruce had largely remained unconscious. Occasionally, he would wake to simply lie there, dazed and unfocused before he would be dragged out of the vehicle to be dosed again.

Clark himself had not fared much better. He had not recovered from the kryptonite as he had in his past encounters with the substance. Often he found himself fading, losing time as the awful pain in his chest strengthened. His grasp of time had crumbled, punctuated only by the times that he saw their captors, which he guessed happened every few hours. That could only mean days on the road, in the back of an SUV, and now in the trunk of a sedan.

“Bruce?” Clark tried again. Sightlessly, he fumbled, first finding Bruce’s stomach, then placing his hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly. They hit a pothole and Clark smacked his head against the floor.

He felt Bruce stir, trying to stretch out, then finding it impossible. “Superman?” he breathed, his tongue thick.

“Yeah?” Clark lifted his head slightly. 

Holding his hands just in front of him, Bruce tugged at his plastic cuffs. With a grunt, he flexed his arms, then ripped the restraints apart. 

“Jesus, Bruce, what are you-” 

Wordlessly, Bruce began the awkward task of turning himself onto his back. He fit himself in the narrow gap between the trunk’s lid and Clark’s body. Clark groaned as Bruce’s hip pressed into his groin, a touch too hard for comfort. Without apology, Bruce shifted away. Back against Clark’s front, he finally stilled. 

Eyes stubbornly useless without light, Clark could neither see nor guess what he was planning. “What are you doing?” he finally whispered.

“We’re going to run. When I open the trunk, jump out.” Bruce’s voice was calm, as if asking two men who were only flesh and blood to leap out onto the road was the safest, most logical solution. Clark was not even sure he could run in this state, but he chose not to voice that worry.

“We’re on a highway, aren’t we?” 

“Probably an interstate.” Bruce ignored his larger point, raising his hands to the trunk’s lid.

“There’s no safety release.” Clark pointed out the most obvious flaw to his plan.

“I can still get it open, just a moment.” Bruce shifted against him, fingers scraping along the inside of the trunk. He turned, which in this position meant that he rested his cheek against Clark’s chest. “Are you ready?”

It seemed a terrible idea, made worse by the fact that Clark doubted he would be able to protect Bruce should anything go wrong. But then, it could be no worse than remaining with their captors. He nodded in the dark, then whispered, “Ready.”

The trunk flew open, wobbling and then crashing back down, nearly striking Bruce in the head. He barely managed to catch the lid, holding it open for just a second before he tumbled over the lip of the trunk and into the road. 

Already, the car was braking, their kidnappers unable to miss the commotion. Inhaling, Clark watched a mile marker whip by, then cast himself out into the dark.

Contact with the road stung, though he rolled with it. The asphalt tore his shirt, scraping his back and shoulder raw. Headlights swung up over the horizon, threatening to flatten him. His momentum still carrying him, Clark half rolled, half staggered into the dusty median.

“Come on!” Bruce came sprinting up to him, dragging him upright. “This way.” Clark followed, clambering over the divider and dashing across two lanes of highway. Already he felt lightheaded. He doubled over on the side of the highway, nausea threatening to overcome him.

Bruce turned, finding Clark stopped a few paces behind him. Laboriously, Clark straightened, though he kept his head down.

Headlights illuminated his face for a split second, before the vehicle passed. In that instant, Bruce saw that his face was drawn, lips twisted in a silent expression of pain.

“There’s a gas station just ahead,” Bruce offered him a destination, though he knew it would not provide any protection. “We’ll rest once we get there, alright?”

Clark looked up at the glowing sign, an unfamiliar name stamped in green across it. Tightly, he nodded. Bruce reached for his arm, draping it over his shoulders. Grasping him under his opposite arm, Bruce took some of his weight onto his own shoulders. With Clark stumbling beside him, he quickly hobbled down the gravel shoulder, then across the crumbling asphalt parking lot.

The bathroom at the back of the gas station was thankfully empty. Bruce hustled Clark inside, before bolting the door shut behind them. He guessed that they would only have minutes before their captors would be able to double back for them, but he needed the rest almost as much as Clark did.

Leaving Clark to lean against the wall, Bruce limped towards the chipped porcelain sink. Grabbing at the lip of the sink, he braced himself as he fumbled with the tap. The fog of the sedative still clung to him, dulling his senses. Cupping his hands under the sink, Bruce drank, then splashed his face with water.

In the scant minute that Bruce had left him alone, Clark slid down to sit on the grubby blue tile. With a shaky breath, he tilted his head back against the wall. His face came into the light, vulnerable and very human.

“Did they use kryptonite on you?” Bruce approached him cautiously, leaning down. 

Clark nodded and a few curls fell into his eyes. Beneath his dark hair, his face was unnaturally pale as sweat gathered on his brow. Gingerly, he arched his back, easing some of the pressure on his chest.

“Can I look?” Bruce hesitated, though there seemed to be little immediate threat. At another nod, he reached for the hem of Clark’s shirt, pulling it up to show the wound.

In the dim light of that bathroom, Bruce could see the place where the dart had struck him was inflamed, swollen in a painful circle six inches across. It resembled an insect sting rather than a puncture wound. Without any tools, Bruce could only guess that his reaction to the kryptonite was of chief concern, with the small open wound in his chest being of only secondary importance.

Frustratingly, the government files he had viewed had provided only sparse information on Clark’s actual physiology. Instead, they had amassed a catalogue of all the things that wouldn’t kill him. That meant that likely only Clark could provide him real insight into how to help him.

“How similar are you to a human?” 

“Sort of, I guess.” Clark flinched as Bruce drew his shirt up a few inches higher, fingers coming close to the wound. He then squeezed his eyes shut.

“What can I do to help you?” Bruce tried again.

“I don’t know.” Clark’s eyes flickered open. “Sunlight usually helps.”

“Sunlight.” Bruce frowned. Through the frosted window the sky was still black with no sign of dawn. But, any minute now, men would arrive to try to recapture them.

“Do you know who they’re working for?”

Clark winced as his shirt slid back down to cover the wound. “I have a guess.”

“Who?”

“It could be Luthor, but-” Clark trailed off, hand lingering over his injury.

“But?”

“He’s never done anything quite like this before.”

There was no time to digest the information. Bruce stood. “We need to get moving. Can you walk?” He offered an outstretched hand.

Clark nodded, but Bruce doubted he would admit it if he couldn’t. Hauling him to his feet, he led them back out into the night, striking out across the empty plain. A narrow dirt track led away from the gas station, only slightly easing their way.

Step by halting step, Clark grew slower, breath coming in a harsh rasp. Wordlessly, Bruce again wrapped an arm around him to hold him up and continued, half dragging the stumbling man.

They had only made it a few minutes off the interstate when Clark heard the telltale crunch of tires on gravel. 

“Down,” Bruce hissed. He seized Clark by the back of his shirt, bundling him into the underbrush. There he shoved him to the ground. He flattened himself on top of him, careful only of his injury.

They lay together in complete silence, breaths held as the vehicle inched closer. Around them, Clark could see the headlights fanning out to illuminate the scrub around them. For the moment, the low boughs of the juniper shielded them, but Clark doubted they could remain concealed as the lights drew nearer.

The vehicle halted, a few dozen yards from their hiding place. Doors opened and Clark could clearly hear what was said.

“The clerk said he saw them heading back this way.” Immediately, Clark turned his head towards the source. Bruce stopped him, fingers biting bruisingly deep into his biceps. Slowly, Bruce raised himself into a crouch, focus intent on a point somewhere beyond Clark’s left shoulder.

“How long ago did he say that was?” Two voices now, but no more. Two men, which though it was certainly not good odds for Clark in his current state, it was far better than the twelve at the paper mill.

“Just about ten minutes. They can’t have made it much farther than this.”

“Get your flashlight out.” Feet slammed into gravel as someone jumped out of the vehicle.

Leaning forwards, Bruce put his lips to Clark’s ear. “Stay here and stay quiet. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Clark shook his head and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He opened his mouth to voice his protest, but Bruce folded one large hand over it. Holding him firmly, the barest hint of a growl entered his voice. “I don’t care what you think. Stay here.”

He slipped silently from Clark’s side into the darkness. Painfully, Clark turned onto his side to watch him, but quickly lost track of his progress. He shifted closer to the light, desperate to know what was happening beyond the veil of brush that surrounded him.

“You think we’ll be able to catch them out here?” A second pair of feet joined the first, leaping onto the ground. Clark inhaled slowly, afraid that at any moment Bruce would be seen. Perhaps they would shoot him then and there, no more second chances left.

The pain suddenly spiked in his chest. Clark gingerly put his fingers to the wound, biting into his cheek to keep himself quiet. However little faith he had in Bruce Wayne’s ability to defeat two armed men, either through deception or violence, he could be of no help to him now.

“Did you see him before we left?” The first voice was closer now, only a few yards behind Clark. To his left, he could see the wandering beam of a flashlight, creeping closer to where he lay.

“Nah.”

“Superman’s in bad shape and Wayne’s fucking useless.” The sound of footsteps changed, softer now as grass was flattened underfoot. “And there’s no one else out here.”

There was a lull in the conversation, and though he did not hear anything strange, the light of the flashlight shuddered and then dropped.

“Spence?” The other man came closer, clumsy and loud as he waded through the underbrush. “Spence? Are you-?” He seemed to choke on the end of his sentence, before a barely audible groan left his mouth.

Clark strained to see through the darkness and past the harsh glare of the headlights. He could hear nothing other than the distant roar of the interstate, as much as he tried to guess what could be happening.

A shadowed figure pulled away the underbrush, and now Clark had to squint against the dim light. He couldn’t see his face, though he could only guess that it was Bruce. 

“Come on.” Bruce pulled him up off the ground. Clark could not help but lean against him, gripping tight at his solid shoulders, however uneasy he might be. It seemed impossible that Bruce Wayne, who had fought poorly in the Metropolis papermill, had managed to defeat two men so quietly.

As he stumbled towards the vehicle, Clark caught sight of the dark, crumpled form of one of their captors. He could not make out any of his features, could see nothing beyond the awkward, twisted way he lay on the ground.

“Is he dead?” Clark began to pull away from Bruce, though he could not stand alone.

“Unconscious.” He met Clark’s gaze evenly, eyes intent with what Clark hoped was honesty. “You can check if you want.”

Reluctantly, he leaned back into Bruce and allowed himself to be led around to the side of the vehicle. With the glare no longer in Clark’s eyes, he could see that it was a large black SUV.

It took Bruce’s help to get him into the passenger seat. Bruce half-lifted him, one hand underneath his thighs, before buckling him in. Exhausted, Clark let his head fall back against the seat. After the door was closed, he leaned against it, pillowing his heavy head on his arm. He did not see any of the plain outside his window as Bruce turned the SUV back towards the gas station.

* * *

Tires spinning on the gravel, Bruce pulled out onto the interstate. He headed north, intent on putting distance between them and their kidnappers. It took him a few minutes to get his bearings, squinting at the green signs that lined the road, before he finally understood they were in New Mexico. 

It would have taken days for them to get here by road, which meant he had lost time to the haze of sedatives. Even now, despite the bite of adrenalin, the effects of the sedatives remained with him, slowing him down. He needed rest, but could not afford it, not with every mile they traveled making them harder and harder to find. 

He turned at the first junction they came upon, heading west on a crumbling county road. The momentum caused Clark to slump to the side, head knocking against the window. Bruce glanced at him, noting with increasing concern that he barely stirred, chin now dropping limply down onto his chest. “Superman?” he raised his voice, trying to rouse him, before grabbing at his shoulder. Then, “Clark?”

His touch got him no response. Swearing under his breath, Bruce pulled off the highway at his first opportunity, speeding down a sheltered dirt driveway. He pulled in close to the line of pines that stood at one side of the property, shielding the SUV from view of the road.

Grasping at his shoulder again, Bruce rolled Clark to sit upright in his seat. He flicked on the map light, grimacing slightly as he saw the growing stain on Clark’s shirt. Gently, he lowered the seat until Clark nearly lay flat. Fingers fumbling in his haste, he pulled up the damp fabric of Clark’s shirt.

The wound was worse, though less than an hour had passed since Bruce had last seen it. The swelling had spread wider across his chest, painful redness now spanning from the lowest ridge of his ribs to his navel. The small puncture where the dart had struck him had stretched into an ugly, weeping wound.

“Sorry,” Clark mumbled, eyes shut. “I think, I think there’s something wrong.”

“Don’t move,” Bruce warned, before leaning past him into the back seat. At the very least, he hoped for a first aid kit, but if there wasn’t one, he could improvise. 

“Bruce-” Clark turned his head towards him. “If I, if this gets worse, you know I can’t go to a hospital.” Bruce ignored him, instead pulling the flashlight he had taken off one of the men from his pocket. With the additional light, he peered under the seat. “If you take me to a hospital, they’ll-”

“I understand.” Bruce dragged a plastic case out and laid it out on his lap. “No hospitals.” Momentarily, Clark fell silent, rolling his head back against the headrest. 

Bruce held the flashlight up over his head, making Clark squint against the glare. “What are you doing?”

“Those men didn’t want to kill you, which means something happened they didn’t plan on.” Careful not to touch his inflamed skin, Bruce leaned in, searching for the root of the problem. He spotted it, deep in the wound. An inch-long splinter of green was still embedded in Clark’s flesh. “There. Part of the dart broke off.”

Popping open the first aid kit, Bruce quickly plucked a pair of tweezers from their case. Then, holding the flashlight in his mouth, he returned his attention to Clark. Clark swallowed as Bruce held the narrow metal points an inch above his chest, eyes fixed on the instrument. 

“Hey,” Bruce offered him an awkward half-smile around the flashlight. He lay his left hand on Clark’s shoulder, a comforting grip which he could easily use to restrain him if needed. “You just need to hold still for me, alright?”

Clark flinched, hands tightening into fists as Bruce drew the kryptonite from under his skin. The light still clenched between his teeth, Bruce sat back on his heels to examine the mineral. Then he stepped out of the car, leaving Clark alone.

While Bruce would have liked to keep the specimen, he could not justify the harm that its presence would cause Clark. So, he picked a place, dozens of yards from the SUV, and drove the tiny shard into the earth.

By the time Bruce finished cleaning and bandaging the wound, the flush of dawn was creeping along the horizon. Without asking permission, he stepped around to the passenger side and lifted Clark into his arms. 

“I can walk,” Clark protested half-heartedly, though he was not even strong enough to push him away. 

When Bruce ignored him, he fell silent. Stooped slightly at Clark’s weight, Bruce carried him a few feet out onto the plain. Gently, Bruce laid him down among the tufts of straw-yellow grass.

Bruce did his best to keep himself busy as they waited for the sun to rise. He took inventory of the SUV, noting resources. They had the first aid kit, one flashlight, two gallons of water, a full gas can, an eight-inch knife, and the roll of cash he had stolen from the men he had overpowered.

As the time passed, Bruce did not dare sit, fearing that sleep would threaten to take him if he allowed any part of himself to rest. Instead, Bruce leaned against the mottled orange trunk of a pine, eyes stubbornly open.

* * *

More than an hour slid by before Clark found the strength to push himself upright, the golden light of the morning seeping into his skin. Swiping his hand across his eyes, he turned and found Bruce resting in the shade.

Bruce straightened at the first sign of movement. “How do you feel?”

Sighing, Clark gingerly allowed himself to rest against the still-cold ground. “Bad.” He reached down, finding the bandage on his stomach, then craned his neck to look. “But better I think.”

Bruce stepped out from under the tree. Now, Clark could see the blood on his hands, under his nails and in his cuticles, though he had tried to wipe them clean. “Are you ready to move on?”

“I think so.” Clark painfully began to push himself to his feet, trying not to strain his injury as he did. Bruce bent down and with surprising strength, pulled him to his feet. When he did not immediately let go, Clark gently tapped at his wrists. “Really, I can walk.”

* * *

Leaning back in his seat, Clark let the countryside fade into a blur. There was little to see here, the land familiarly wide, flat and brown. It was enough to bring a peculiar jolt of homesickness, a twinge somewhere near his heart. At this moment, it was easy to yearn for Smallville, or at least some safe haven for him in his time of weakness. But it scarcely felt productive to dwell on the thought.

Instead, he watched Bruce.

Bruce’s eye, while still swollen, seemed better. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up, baring his forearms. At his wrists, Clark could see dark bruises and two small gashes from his restraints. His shirt and trousers were torn from his tumble on the road, and his palms scraped raw on the asphalt.

“What is it?” Bruce growled.

Clark turned to look out the windshield, strangely nervous that he had been caught staring. “I was wondering if you were hurt.”

“I’m fine.” When Clark frowned disbelievingly at him, he elaborated. “It’s just bruises. Nothing to worry about.”

Unable to use his X-ray vision , Clark could only take him at his word. Obligingly, he changed the topic of conversation. “Where are we?” 

“New Mexico.” Bruce rested his arm on the door, leaning back in his seat.

“Where are we going?”

“Breakfast.” The gruffness of Bruce’s voice began to soften as he flashed an easy smile at Clark.

“And after that?” Clark pressed, leaning forwards. Something about Bruce’s behavior made him uncomfortable, the contrast between the smiling man he had met days ago and his intensity last night.

“California.”

“California?” Clark wrinkled his brow, just short of incredulous.

“They’ll be looking for us to try to drive back to Metropolis, so we’ll go the other way.” Sensing Clark’s continuing doubt, he turned and held his gaze. “I have a home in LA. We’ll be safe there. Then I can worry about getting you back to Metropolis.”

Frowning, Clark tried to form an argument for why this seemed like an awful plan. Before he could voice any of his concerns, a sign for a fast food restaurant rose above the horizon.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” Bruce smiled again.

* * *

Clark was perfectly happy to remain in his seat, soaking in the sun through his open window. Though Bruce did not bother to ask what he wanted, Clark was nevertheless pleased with the contents of the bag he presented him.

Both were starving after days on the road. Bruce rummaged through his own bag, extracting a sandwich, before pulling back out onto the highway.

Halfway through his biscuit, something occurred to Clark. It felt almost ungrateful to ask, but Clark needed to know. “How did you get the money for this?”

“Stole it.” Bruce popped the lid off his coffee with his thumb. He grinned as Clark stopped chewing and frowned down at his food. “Is that a problem?”

“Who did you steal from?” Clark glanced in the rearview mirror, back towards the restaurant, as if the answer was there.

“Our  friends  were carrying 318 dollars.” Bruce’s smile turned dark as he bit into the word. “How does Superman feel about stealing from criminals?”

Though he did not need to, Clark answered the question seriously anyways. “It would depend on what it was used for.”

“What about food for two starving men?”

“I guess-”

“And gas for their new car. And a whole trip down to the beach in Southern California?”

“I thought we were going to your house.”

“My house is on the beach.” There was something fierce now in Bruce’s smile, a challenge to Clark.

Leaning back in his seat, Clark ate the rest of his food in silence.

* * *

When Clark grew bored, he began to surf through the radio stations, trying his luck with the fading FM signals, before finally swapping to AM. Bruce pulled a face as he settled on a channel, but Clark ignored him. It felt good to have something there to break up the monotony of the tires on the endless, straight highway. He kept the sound low anyways, trying to keep in Bruce’s good graces.

The signal faded to static before Clark spoke again. “How did they catch you?” he asked, finally giving voice to what had troubled him for most of the morning.

“What do you mean?”

“You can fight.” 

Bruce shook his head, eyes still on the road. The corner of his mouth quirked up, smile more incredulous than amused. His reaction grated on Clark’s nerves in a way he himself did not understand. Clark pushed harder at his point.

“You were able to take those two men out without any trouble, so I wouldn’t think you’d have-”

“Exactly, there were only two of them. And who knows, maybe I just got lucky.” Bruce floated the excuse clumsily, as if he did not believe it himself.

Doubt only growing, Clark narrowed his eyes. “So, what do you want me to think? Should I just take your word that what you did back there was beginner’s luck?”

“Yes, if that’ll keep you quiet.”

It would have been easy to continue the argument, to pry at Bruce’s secrets. But, for the moment, Clark needed to at least try to get along with him. 

Clark rolled down his window and leaned into the wind. Resting his chin on his arm, he let the over-bright sun soak into his skin.

* * *

It took several hours before they crossed a city large enough to have more than a bar and a gas station. This city had a massive strip mall out on the main drag. Bruce pulled in at a big box store and parked at the back of the lot. At Clark’s questioning look, he replied only, “We’re going to need a few things.”

“Like?”

“Like clothes that don’t have blood on them.”

Shrugging, Clark reached for the door handle. Bruce didn’t move.

“You can’t go in there wearing that.”

Confused, Clark looked down. He had removed his cape hours earlier, folding it carefully and hiding it under his seat. “Wearing what?”

“The shirt.” Bruce nodded at the symbol on his chest.

“Plenty of people go to Metropolis and buy shirts like this.”

“You look like you’ve been stabbed.” In the daylight, the broad red-brown stain stood out on his stomach. “And most people wearing those shirts don’t look the same as you do.”

“And what do I look like?” Clark furrowed his brow. He could not help but hear the beginnings of a slight, though he hoped that he only imagined it.

“Like Superman.” Bruce hurriedly worked down the line of buttons on his own stained shirt. After twisting in his seat to remove it, he passed the garment to Clark. “Put it on.”

Though tempted to protest that Bruce’s undershirt also was stained with blood, Clark grudgingly pulled Bruce’s shirt over his own. He trailed after him through the parking lot as he buttoned up the shirt, frowning as he discovered it was far too tight across the shoulders. 

It was strange to stand inside the store, on the gleaming white tile. The store looked just the same as the one that had been built new, 15 miles east of Smallville, the same as all the others in the chain. Grocery on the left, pharmacy on the right, clothes somewhere in the middle.

Clark wondered privately if Bruce had ever been inside a store like this. He seemed to know where to go, picking the barest necessities in toiletries and two prepaid phones, before heading towards the clothes. 

“Find something that won’t stick out and get a coat,” was Bruce’s only advice. He gave him scarcely five minutes before walking up to the register.

Almost instantaneously, Bruce seemed to forget his hurry. He took special time to flirt with the cashier while Clark studied the packs of gum above the conveyer belt. Bruce’s face was plastered across all the magazines behind him, yellow headlines blaring all the details of the kidnapping.

In the space of a few minutes, and the work of her ringing up their entire order of seven items, Bruce already had out of the cashier her life goals, community college and phone number.

She smiled anxiously at him, overwhelmed by his flattery. “Anyone—has anyone ever told you that you look a bit like Bruce Wayne?”

Bruce did not miss a beat. “Once, just a few days ago. Same guy gave me this.” He indicated his swollen eye. Bruce held the cashier’s gaze for a few long seconds, deadly serious, before breaking into a broad grin. Clark looked away from him as she laughed.

The trouble, Clark thought, was that Bruce knew he was attractive. And he had absolutely no aversion to using his looks to his own advantage.

As Bruce started towards the door, Clark fell in step beside him. Lowering his voice, he gave Bruce a sidelong glance. “And you were worried  _I_ was going be recognized.”

“She won’t report it, and it wouldn’t matter even if she did.” Bruce’s tone quickly dropped away from the flirtatious lilt he had used on the cashier. 

“Why’s that?” Bruce’s confidence grated on  hi s nerves. There was no way  h e could be sure of that.

“They’re going to be so flooded with tips they won’t be able to process them all. It’d be a waste of resources to look into the story of Bruce Wayne buying flannel and phones halfway across the country.”

* * *

Bruce and Clark crowded into the single occupancy bathroom of the nearest restaurant to change. As Bruce rolled up the sleeves of his blue flannel shirt, Clark caught sight of a long, faded scar sunk deep into his forearm. He frowned and looked away.

“What’s wrong?” Though it had been only a second, Bruce had caught his look in the mirror. 

“Nothing.” Clark turned to the side, focusing intently on buttoning his shirt over his old stained one. When he dared to raise his head, he found Bruce’s eyes fixed on him.

“You’re a bad liar, Superman.”

Clark bit back a more revealing reply. “Comes with the territory.”

Snorting slightly, Bruce turned on the tap. He scrubbed at his face, then his fingers, all traces of blood diluting to pink and orange in the water. Lifting his head, he looked back into the mirror, turning to the side as he assessed his appearance.

There was no hiding his blackened eye, nor the yellowed swelling on his cheekbone. However, now free of blood and with several days’ stubble on his chin, Bruce could almost pass as anyone else in this town. But only almost, as there was something about him that remained a little too polished and a little too on the nose.

“What are you trying to look like?” Clark let his hip rest against the sink, leaning there as he took full advantage of his chance to stare at Bruce.

Bruce glanced sharply at him, seeming to sense that he was about to criticize him. Still, he replied anyway. “Just anyone. Maybe a bit sleazy, maybe someone who’s been sleeping rough, but nothing that would stick out.”

“You realize that you don’t look like anyone from around here, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?” There was no trace of self-consciousness on Bruce’s face as he met his gaze.

“You look like some Gothamite’s idea of what a country boy looks like.” Gorgeous, Clark thought, but didn’t say. “Like someone in a magazine.” Without thinking, he reached out to touch him.

Bruce did not pull away when Clark grasped at his shirt, untucking his shirttails. Clark pulled him closer, until he was leaning on the sink. Fingers resting just below his collarbone, Clark considered him for a moment before flicking the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

His undershirt showed now--once white, now stained red and brown. Despite his time spent with the soap, Bruce looked like he had lived in his clothes for a week already, which wasn’t far from the truth.

Clark reached up, running his hand through Bruce’s hair. Gently, he tousled the damp strands, leaving him looking slightly disheveled.

With his fingers still in Bruce’s hair, Clark paused, suddenly aware of their closeness. Bruce remained still under his hand, almost frozen. Clark wondered if he expected him to kiss him now, or if such affection would even be welcome.

Clark turned and left the bathroom, pulling the brim of his new baseball cap down over his eyes.

* * *

Bruce stood outside the SUV, turned away from Clark. He made no attempt to hide his conversation from him as he pressed the flip phone to his ear. Still, Clark felt guilty for eavesdropping on him, despite the fact it was nearly impossible not to overhear.

“Alfred.” Bruce rested his hand on the hood of the SUV when his call was picked up. Relaxing slightly, he was silent for a few seconds, listening, before he interrupted.

“No. He’s with me, but he’s weak right now and needs time to recover.” He leaned back against the car, one arm outstretched. He crumpled the cardboard box the phone had come in, bending the sides and pressing it flat. 

“You could,” Bruce rejoined, “but there would be a risk that they’d find out Bruce Wayne was at the airport. I don’t think I could protect him long enough for the jet to get there and for us to get on.”

“Listen,” he continued. “I’m driving us to LA. I haven’t seen any trouble so far, so it’s possible they might not figure out where we are.” He shoved the box back into the plastic bag. “Meet us there in two days.”

Pausing again, Bruce looked out towards the highway. “I will,” he finally grunted, before snapping the phone shut. Turning it in his hand, he slid off the back of the phone and quickly pried the SIM card free. Then, he tossed the tiny plastic chip and the phone on the asphalt and ground them under his heel.

Certain that Bruce was about to climb back into the SUV, Clark turned on the radio. He shuffled awkwardly in his seat, leaning back to pretend that he was resting.

Seconds later, Bruce pulled himself into the driver’s seat, the second phone in his hand. He scrawled in sharpie a line of numbers near the speaker, before flipping it shut.

He turned to Clark, leaning across the armrest between them. “Take this phone. If anything happens to me, call the number that’s next to the screen. Don’t activate it otherwise. Understood?” Bruce pressed the phone into Clark’s hand. Clark nodded slightly and slipped the tiny device into his pocket.

* * *

As they drove, Clark continued to puzzle over Bruce’s behavior. It was clear that the gap between the Bruce Wayne Clark met in Metropolis and the man with him now was a distance far greater than miles. He would have never guessed that Bruce even had the temperament, much less the skills necessary to escape and keep them both alive.

The question still only half-formed in his head, Clark asked, “Where did you learn to help people?”

“What do you mean?” Bruce was rightly confused by the question, without any of the context.

Any of it, Clark thought. But instead, he clarified, picking the easiest question. “First aid?”

“Volunteer work. I spent six months working in a hospital overseas, three years ago.”

Nodding slightly, Clark accepted the answer. There was no way for him to verify the information now, and there likely never would be. For seven years of Bruce’s life, from his eighteenth birthday up until just last year, he had been missing, presumed dead. That left no records of where he had been, or what he had done.

“What else did you do during that time?”

Sliding one hand to the top of the steering wheel, Bruce gave him a long, thoughtful look. Then he smiled, all teeth. “Traveled. Found myself. Whatever it is that kids with too much money do.”

Clark let his head fall back against his headrest, frowning at the visor above him.

The absurd smile slowly faded from Bruce’s lips. “You don’t believe that?”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Clark leaned against the window, allowing the sun to warm his cheek through the glass. “What about how you act in public? Why do you do that?”

“How _do_ I act in public?” Bruce glanced at him, challenging him with the barest trace of his earlier smile.

Closing his eyes, Clark stewed over his reply. He could try to be tactful, but at this moment, he didn’t see the point. “You’re kind of an asshole.”

That earned him a single snort of a chuckle. Clark cracked open one eye.

Bruce was still staring at him. “Is there something I can call you?” he asked, turning back to the road. “Other than Superman,” he amended a few seconds later.

Thinning his lips, Clark thought it over. “Joe?” he volunteered uncertainly.

“Joe?” Bruce quirked an eyebrow at his lack of imagination.

“Yeah,” Clark replied, a little defensive, though he dared not tell him why.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon before they stopped again, at a sandwich shop near a train station. The town around them was half empty, old brick buildings boarded up along Main Street. Only the sandwich shop and the aging adobe hotel across the street had any business.

Bruce and Clark sat out on a picnic table near their parking spot. Bruce faced the road, warily watching every car that drove by. Facing him, Clark watched the customers still inside the shop. He stretched out his limited powers, trying to get a grasp at how much he had lost.

The conversation inside came to his ears as if in muted whispers. Surprisingly, he found it was about him and Bruce.

“There’s three guys talking about us at one on the tables inside.”

Tensing slightly, Bruce leaned in, closer to Clark. “What are they saying?”

Clark frowned, concentrating. Just days ago, he would have been able to hear what anyone in this town or even across the whole Colorado Plateau was saying. Now, he had to strain just to hear someone who was separated from them by only a few yards and a sheet of glass.

“One of them thinks you look like Bruce Wayne.”

Almost immediately, Bruce began to relax. “I do look a bit like him.”

“And now they’re wondering who I am, if you’re Bruce Wayne. They think I’m—oh--” Clark felt his face turn hot.

“Who?” Bruce prompted, with a grin Clark thought might actually be genuine.

“No one, they just think that we’re—that you’ve run off with someone.”

“I’d say that’s accurate actually.” Bruce lay both hands on the tabletop, pushing himself to his feet. “Ready?”

* * *

Just an hour later, they crossed the state line into Arizona. Bruce continued his steady course west for another hundred miles, threading through thick pine forest. As darkness fell, he turned south, taking a curving highway down the side of the Mogollon Rim.

After getting gas at the two-pump station of a little forest town, Bruce pulled into a parking spot in front of the convenience store. It was dark here, with only the fluorescent light that shone out the front window to light the inside of the car.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce twisted sideways in his seat, real concern on his face. 

Shifting forwards then back, Clark tested how it felt to move. A steady ache remained in his chest, a weight that refused to budge. However, no sharp pain plagued him, not since Bruce had removed that awful thorn. Clark did not feel anything like himself, but now he judged that he might be close to the strength of a human. “Better, I guess.”

“Has the swelling gone down?” Bruce raised his hand, but didn’t touch him.

“Some.”

“Show me.” Bruce turned on the map light and leaned across the armrest. He waited patiently as Clark unbuttoned his flannel then gingerly hiked up his shirt. Clark held the fabric clear, scrunched up over his shoulders.

Bruce slid his hands up Clark’s sides, careful to avoid putting any pressure on his injury. Gently, he lifted the corner of the medical tape. Clark involuntarily flinched as he peeled back the gauze, some of the material sticking before coming free.

“Breathe.” Bruce put a hand high on his chest. Shuddering, Clark exhaled and forced himself to lean back in his seat. He shut his eyes as Bruce leaned in to inspect the wound, fingers hovering a hair’s breadth above the inflamed skin that surrounded it. Then he reached into the first aid kit for another wad of gauze.

As Bruce taped him up again, Clark felt his breath against his throat, warm exhales light on his skin. Blinking, he opened his eyes to peer down at Bruce, who remained close even after he finished his task. 

Slowly, Bruce lifted his head until he was level with Clark, eyes travelling up his chest, to his throat, to his lips, then his eyes. He paused there, before dipping in to fit their mouths together.

The gentle brush of Bruce’s lips soon turned to the soft press of his mouth, then his tongue. His hands slid along Clark’s skin, one coming to rest on his shoulder where he braced himself against him. The other he carded through his hair, before curling his fingers in to touch Clark’s scalp.

Clark grabbed at Bruce’s shoulders, drawing him in with fistfuls of his flannel shirt. Bruce scrambled up onto his knees in the seat, nearly straddling the armrest as he sought to get closer to Clark. Finally, he toppled forwards, catching himself with a hand on Clark’s chest.

Clark grunted, recoiling as Bruce touched the inflamed skin just above his stomach. Almost immediately, Bruce drew back, lips reddened.

“Wait, Bruce,” Clark reached for his arm. “I’m fine, you don’t have to—”

Blindly shoving the door open behind him, Bruce stepped out of the vehicle. For a minute, he stood next to the SUV, pressing the back of his hand over his mouth. Then he stepped up onto the curb and slipped into the store, without another glance at Clark.

Minutes later, Bruce reappeared with a plastic bag and another gallon of water. He paused to lob his crumpled receipt into the trash, before climbing back into the vehicle.

Wordlessly, Bruce passed Clark a sandwich wrapped in paper. They ate in silence, staring out the windshield at the storefront. Inch by inch, Clark slumped down in his seat, confusion building as he puzzled over Bruce’s behavior.

“Bruce,” he began, wanting at least some explanation from him. Eyes fixed studiously on the rearview mirror, Bruce did not so much as glance at him. “Bruce-” he tried again.

Abruptly Bruce sat upright, cramming his half-eaten sandwich back into its wrapper with one hand. His eyes remained on the mirror.

Craning his neck, Clark tried to find what had alerted him.. “What is it?”

“Across the road.” Bruce turned the engine over. One hand braced on Clark’s headrest, he glanced behind them as he threw them into reverse.

Clark followed his gaze, focusing on the battered strip mall across the street. A diner occupied one end of the wooden storefront, a gift shop the other. Parked in front of the diner was an SUV identical to the one they drove, sitting alongside a large navy sedan.

“Tell me if they follow.” Bruce peeled out onto the single-lane highway, accelerating rapidly. He checked his mirrors once, then twice, before turning his attention to a rapidly approaching curve. 

Clark nodded, still turned sideways in his seat. He blinked as headlights came over the horizon, shining blindingly bright into his eyes. He squinted and his eyes belatedly adjusted, filtering out the headlamps. Past the glare, he saw the familiar shape of the SUV.

“That’s them.” He lightly touched Bruce’s shoulder. “They’re following.”

Though Bruce had already been speeding, he now put his foot to the floor. Past the edge of town, the highway grew steep and winding. Clark gripped at the armrest and kept his mouth shut as Bruce took the next curve at several times the posted speed.

Beside him, Bruce was disturbingly calm. There was tension in his shoulders, but in the dim light his face was smooth, not a wrinkle of worry on his brow. Clark thought he could relate, if at this moment, he had the luxury of his usual indestructibility. However, hurtling along the edge of a cliff in nothing more than a vulnerable metal shell, it was much harder to fight back his fears.

Around the next corner, they came upon tail lights. A van was slowly moving up the same path and the guardrails on either side of the road meant Bruce had only two choices: swerve into the oncoming lane or brake, hard.

He swerved, bringing them around the van just before another vehicle approached. That gave them a few extra seconds before their pursuers could follow them past the van. 

Bruce switched off his lights, plunging them into near total darkness. At his first opportunity, he turned left off the highways, barely missing an oncoming truck.

The narrow road was as dark as the highway had been, unlit and unmarked. The only landmarks Clark could see through the blackness were occasional dirt driveways, leading back into the sparse forest. He guessed that they made it three miles before Bruce flipped the headlights back on, flooding the road in front of them with light.

“Is there a map in the glove compartment?” Bruce asked as he again checked his mirrors.

Clark popped the latch. The glove compartment fell open, dumping an array of documents and wrappers into his lap. He tapped at the map light, before beginning to paw through them.

Underneath a map of Texas, Clark found a map with New Mexico on one side and Arizona on the other. Finger trailing along the paper, he skimmed down the eastern side of the state, hoping to find a familiar name.

“We were on the 260. Just past mile marker 53.” Bruce briefly looked away from the road to jab his finger at one of the narrower routes.

Clark blinked, before finding the spot. “Okay.” He glanced out the windshield as if it would help him. Outside, the forest was quickly thinning, opening into a scrubby grassland. “I think we’re on a forest road. It’s going to turn to dirt soon, but in about 20 miles, it’ll join back up with the 260.”

Within five minutes, his prediction proved to be correct. The asphalt petered out to a few yards of gravel, then, finally, dirt. For another two miles, it was flat and well graded, but gradually it began to deteriorate as it steadily descended into narrow ravine.

At the bottom of the slope, Bruce pulled off the road, driving up the flat, gravelly bottom of the wash. He stopped when they were out of sight of the road, pulling behind a tall, feathered bush that grew up out of the dry bed.

“We’ll sleep here.” Bruce turned off the engine, then the headlights. Reaching backwards, he searched for his coat. He found Clark still staring at him when he sat up again, coat in hand. “Something wrong?” 

“No, nothing.” Clark looked away, shaking his head slightly. Turning towards the window, he lowered his seat. Bruce switched off the map light and now Clark could only see the vague outline of his body as he tugged on his coat.

Clark struggled to find sleep. Not only was the adrenaline of the chase still running through his veins, another rush remained with him. While he could have spent many anxious hours wondering if their pursuers would track them here, his mind stubbornly returned to the parking lot of the convenience store.

Bruce had kissed him, once as Clark Kent and now once as Superman. Clark found it impossible not to wonder if Bruce knew exactly what he was doing, if he knew he who he was. As big a blow to his identity as that might be, he found it did not trouble him as much as it should.

Glancing over at Bruce, Clark wondered if he would object to kissing him now. Arms crossed over his chest, Bruce slumped in his seat, eyes still open and staring out into the night. If Clark just leaned over, he could pull Bruce into his lap and kiss him until his lips burned. A vivid fantasy unfurled in his mind’s eye, as he imagined Bruce gasping softly as he touched him.

Clark squeezed his eyes shut.

* * *

The soft dawn light woke Bruce, a few minutes past sunrise. Disoriented, he briefly struggled to remember where he was and what had brought him here. Rarely did he ever lose himself so completely to sleep, and rarely was it simple the blackness, dreamless, uncomplicated and truly restful.

He had meant to stay up and keep watch over Clark, but his body had finally surrendered to exhaustion. A tendril of guilt coiled in his stomach at the lapse, and only grew as he discovered Clark’s absence. The seat beside him was still tilted back, but the door was unlocked. Groggily forcing himself upright, Bruce squinted out the window, searching for some sign of his companion.

Out the front window, he found only the narrow arroyo, many months dry. Bruce stumbled as he exited the SUV, before catching himself and leaning against the door. He found Clark’s footprints leading downstream, pressed deep in the loose gravel. Though he took time to follow the path carefully, it led predictably straight down the wash to the road.

In the treacherous low point of the road, Bruce stood still, trying to puzzle out Clark’s next decision. Here, his footprints nearly disappeared, the ground hardened mud packed tight by the passage of a dozen tires. The path of least resistance led a few yards further down the wash, then up onto a wide sandy bank, covered with wisps of grass. The mild incline led up to the lip of a canyon, newly visible in the light of day.

Just beyond a stand of spindly oak trees, Clark stood, feet apart and head thrown back. The morning sunlight lit his features, gracing him with an otherworldly glow.

“Morning.” Bruce approached him slowly, pausing at his side. Hundreds of feet below, the winding course of a creek bed was marked by clusters of cottonwoods. No water was visible from this distance, just great boulders and fallen trees, remnants of some old flood.

Clark turned towards him, his face quiet, calm. “Good morning,” he echoed, voice still thick with sleep.

The memory of last night still vivid, Bruce struggled to set his feelings aside. His lapse had nearly seen them recaptured, and yet he still could not find the resolve to push Clark away.

Feeling rather awkward beside him, Bruce tried to make conversation. He started, rather lamely, with: “Have you seen anyone else?”

“No one, yet.” Clark shook his head. “There’s quite a few people out at the trailhead a few miles back, but no one’s come down here.” He pointed out along the rim of the cliff, to a feature that jutted out into the gorge below. 

Bruce knew better than to question how Clark knew that, when the trailhead was invisible from this vantage point. He must be able to hear them, tracking them by the crunch and churn of tires miles away. He was recovering, growing stronger with every second of sunlight.

Barely inclining his head, Bruce continued. “We’ll have to be careful when we join back up with the state route, but the bigger danger is that they’ll be looking for us if we go down the interstate.”

“What’s the other way?”

“There’s a small highway that continues west and south, up into the mountains.” Gently, Bruce put his hand to Clark’s back and steered him to look towards the western horizon. A line of mountains, all mauve in this light, extended from the south, towering over a dusty valley. 

“Is there anything up there?” Clark did not move away from Bruce’s hand as he nodded up at the mountains. Bruce took that as an excuse to leave his hand there, keeping them close together.

“Former mining town, then nothing for a while.”

Clark turned back towards him, meeting and holding his gaze. “How do you know all that?” 

Briefly considering his answer, Bruce tilted his head back. He found it easy to give him the benefit of the doubt. Clark’s tone was absent any of the challenge or accusation that he was hiding something; he meant it only as an innocent question. “I traveled around the Southwest for a while when I was younger.”

Amicably, Clark nodded, his curiosity momentarily sated. He lifted his face to the sun and stared straight into its fire, pupils contracting. Bruce looked away, uneasy at the sudden reminder that he was not human.

“Feeling better?” He shoved his hands into pockets, away from the chill beginning to nip at his fingers.

“A little.” Clark lightly brushed his fingers over his injury. “I can see and hear much better, but I don’t think-” he stooped, picking a fist-size chunk of limestone up off the ground. Experimentally, he squeezed it, knuckles whitening. “Nope.”

The soft edges of the rock crumbled, but that was hardly impressive given Superman’s strength. At full power Bruce knew the rock would have been pulverized instantly. Ruefully, Clark dropped it back on the ground, where it skittered and teetered before finally tumbling down the cliff.

“Ready then?”

At Clark’s nod, he turned and led them back to the SUV.

* * *

The next fifteen miles of road were bone-rattling. Bruce clenched at the steering wheel as they traveled over the rocky terrain, allowing no other sign of tension to enter his body. Clark more than made up for it for him, sitting hunched in his seat, one hand tight on the grab handle. 

For the first time in years, he truly appreciated his ability to fly. At full power, he could have made this whole journey in under a minute, or maybe a few hours with Bruce in his arms. Instead, it took an hour of rough track before the road finally yielded to the highway. 

While narrow and winding, this road was a least paved smooth. It snaked down along the forested rim of the high country, slowly carrying them lower, through grasslands, to shrubby foothills, and finally to the bright white desert of the valley. 

It was midmorning when Clark spotted the first doublewides, perched on hillsides above the vast floodplain. As they approached the river bottom, Bruce turned towards him.

“I’m going to stop for gas in a few minutes. Can you keep an eye out until we get out of the valley?”

“Got it.” Clark looked ahead, finding the place where the interstate cut through town. Its path was marked by signs that towered fifty feet in the air, logos of restaurants and gas stations. Soon, flat green boards directed drivers to the northern and southern routes.

As they traveled over the interstate, Clark craned his neck and looked down. He did not see any vehicles stopped along the highway, nor any SUVs that resembled their own. Still, the pursuit from last night hung in his mind, coloring his every thought with apprehension. 

After a few minutes more, the road led them out of the interstate outpost and into a small city. Clustered around the highway was a sprawl of strip malls and car dealerships, masking a section of older buildings that were the only hint that this city had been here far longer than the interstate.

Bruce pulled in at the second gas station, checking his mirrors twice before he turned off the engine. “I can get the gas,” Clark offered, holding out his hand. Bruce gave him two twenties.

Clark felt his eyes follow him as he walked into the store. Bruce was almost as tense as he was, and seemed loathe to let him leave his sight. 

When Clark reemerged, he immediately caught Bruce’s eye as he stared intently out the windshield. He gave him a reassuring nod and a smile, before rounding the SUV to fill the tank. However, Bruce stubbornly refused to relax until well after they had pulled away from the pump.

* * *

They headed out of town as quickly as possible, speeding up the old main street and out onto another state highway. For close to an hour it took them north and west, though the great line of mountains never seemed to grow any closer.

On one outcropping, Clark spotted the letter J, raised and painted white. Just left of the geoglyph lay a glittering field, a smattering of dozens of windows all facing out from the mountainside. Further along, he could see the tailings that remained from the mine, cascading down into a barren basin.

“We’re going up there?” 

Half-amused, Bruce nodded his reply. 

The town didn’t look like much from below, and it wasn’t much more when they finally drove between the buildings, all clinging to the side of the mountain in several steep rows, as if built on a giant staircase. Clark peered out the window at an old truck which faced out of a garage bored deep into rock, its rusted cab barely visible through the corroded metal grate which secured it.

Bruce stopped at the overlook, the sun now almost directly overhead. It washed out all the colors of the grey-white valley and the green of the riverbed. Beyond and to the north, there was more color in the splashes of bright orange and red rock, peeking out from under a descending cloud. Above the clouds, far in the distance, rose a volcanic mount, deep royal purple and crowned by several jagged peaks.

The overlook was not well maintained--just a bare lot, with only a low soldered pipe as a railing. Clark gripped at it and leaned out over the edge. Here, he could imagine flying.

* * *

After finding food for their stomachs, they resumed their journey. The road took them further and further up the mountain, before finally cutting south through a narrow mountain pass. 

Staring out the window, Clark fidgeted with the rubber tubing that lined it. Lost in his thoughts, he twisted and pulled, before finally tearing off a chunk of the material. He dropped it to the floor with a frown, momentarily oblivious of Bruce’s attention on him.

“Who are you?” Clark finally asked, swallowing quickly. He had a guess, a wild idea, which slowly had been built up over the time he had spent with Bruce. But he didn’t want to voice it, not until he was sure.

Bruce grimaced, before he caught and controlled his expression. He decided confusion was the appropriate reaction and raised his eyebrows, eyes wide. “You know exactly who I am, just like I know exactly who you are.”

Clark inhaled, frowning. However, he did not give up the act yet. “And who’s that?”

“I’m Bruce Wayne, and you’re Superman.” He jabbed his finger into Clark’s shoulder. “And that’s all there is.”

“Bruce, by now I think-” Clark began, but Bruce turned off the highway, taking them up a narrow, poorly paved road. In a few seconds, they were in the empty oval lot of a rest stop.

As soon as he had parked, Bruce reached for the door. “I’m not talking about this with you.”

Covering Bruce’s hand with his own, Clark tried to stop him. “Wait.” Effortlessly, Bruce shook off his hand, but Clark quickly caught his wrist. “Bruce, I just want to-”

With a twist, Bruce freed himself from Clark’s hand. The gasp that followed was enough to tell him he might have sprained his wrist, but already Clark launched himself over the gearshift and into Bruce’s seat. 

Clark captured both Bruce’s wrists and pinned them against the window, just over his head. Leaning over him, he could put all his weight on Bruce’s arms, holding him down, twisted sideways in his seat. 

“Stop,” Clark commanded, in a tone Bruce had not heard from him before.

Forearms flexed taut, Bruce eyed him. There were half a dozen ways he could free himself from Clark’s grip, his success hinging on how much power Clark had recovered over the course of the day. The most tempting was a flat-out test of strength, matching himself against Superman.

“Bruce, I-”

Bracing his back against the door, Bruce pressed forwards, putting all the force he could muster into pushing him back. Clark held tight, barely appearing to exert himself as he kept Bruce pinned down.

Abruptly Bruce twisted, catching him off guard as he unlatched the door. They both tumbled out onto asphalt, and while Clark might have had strength on his side, he had not yet regained the advantage in speed.

As Bruce scrambled out from underneath him, Clark crashed face first into the pavement. He had no time to recover as Bruce flipped him over and straddled his hips. Easily, Bruce wrestled his arms to his sides, pinning his wrists above his shoulders.

“Bruce,” Clark barely managed to hiss, pleading.“Bruce, I’m sorry.” He did not offer any resistance, simply laying there, panting. Blood trickled from his nose, but for a moment more Bruce simply held him in place.

Inhaling deeply, Clark tried again. “I’ll leave it alone, I just want to ask you something.” 

Frowning, Bruce reluctantly eased up on his grip, freeing Clark’s hands. Clark exhaled, then gently put his fingers to his nose, probing at the injury. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

Bruce sat back on his heels. He had meant to save that information, to keep it for some time the leverage might be useful. He worked his tongue around his mouth, before making the hesitant admission. “Yes.”

Clark furrowed his brow, an expression of worry deeper than any Bruce had seen from him before. “How long have you known?”

“Since Metropolis, when you rescued me.”

“You’ve been playing along for that long?” Clark lifted his head, craning his neck up as he blinked at him in confusion.

“It wasn’t a discussion we needed to have at the time. You were busy.” Controlling his wince, Bruce slowly rotated his wrist. Haltingly, he added, “And I didn’t know how you’d react.”

“What do you mean?” Clark glanced sharply at him, confused. “What did you think I was going to do?”

“I haven’t known you for very long, Clark.” Bruce held his gaze for a few long seconds, a conscious acknowledgement that this was the first time he had used his name. “I had no idea-”

“I’m not going to threaten you, or hurt you, or whatever it is that you’re thinking.” Clark tilted his head back against the pavement in sudden frustration.

In seconds, he recovered himself, taking the grudging hand Bruce offered to help him upright. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over Bruce’s newly scraped cheek. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

Though he could have easily broken away, Bruce remained close. “You’re the one who’s bleeding.” To prove his point, he wiped at the blood pooling on Clark’s upper lip.

Long after Bruce started the car, Clark remained silent, watching as forest changed to chaparral and then again to grassland. 

“Are you going to tell people who I am?”

Bruce wanted to tell him, “No.” However, he didn’t want to make a promise that he might not keep. The middle ground sounded far more cowardly out loud. “I don’t think so.”

Clark nodded vaguely at the window, hardly reassured.

“Clark.” The sound of his name brought him back, lifting his head to look over at Bruce. “I can understand the need to live another life. I’m not going to take that away from you.”

Seeming a little more reassured, Clark nodded again. He leaned on his arm, relaxing as the sun dipped low enough to shine in through the front window.

* * *

It was less than an hour before the road began to wind again, now descending through a maze of granite columns, sparsely covered with sprawling manzanita. For a few minutes, Clark caught sight of a rocky lake, its surface glassy blue, before it was hidden from sight by a thick stand of cottonwoods.

They came into a city shortly afterwards, the narrow highway spilling onto a larger route that ran along the northeast side of the city. For half an hour, they paused at a restaurant on a tiny lot, before striking out onto the highway again. 

Though they had scarcely been on the route for a minute, Bruce pulled off again, into the parking lot of a two-story motel. He parked in back, before offering the barest explanation. “We’re staying here tonight.”

Clark looked up at the price posted near the front office. Sixty dollars. Couldn’t get much cheaper, but still he worried: “Can we afford that?”

Bruce smirked. “Yes.” Then, when Clark continued to frown, he leaned close to sell it to him. “Showers, beds, I know you must miss that.”

Clark found that he did.

* * *

“Do you want the first shower?” Clark offered, already halfway to the bathroom the moment they were inside.

Bruce turned back from surveying the room. It was as small and plain as the meager price would have led them to believe. Thin, aging carpet covered the floor, which was populated with battered laminate furniture. It did at least have two beds, an armchair, and an analog television with a digital box precariously balanced on top.

Bruce angled towards the armchair. “Go ahead.”

Clark paced into the bathroom, the door drifting closed behind him. Bending low, Clark pulled off his shoes to step onto the cold, yellow tile. 

Stripping quickly, Clark glanced in the mirror. Dried blood crusted just beneath his nose, the only remnant of his earlier tussle with Bruce. Any bruises had already healed, leaving no blemishes behind on his jaw.

He was nervous to peel the bandage from his chest, though his wound now barely pained him. Bracing himself, he pulled the tape slowly from his skin, bringing with it the gauze pad. Underneath lay a round sore the size of a quarter, barely swollen around the edges. It had almost healed, scabbing red over what had once been an awful injury.

After days on the road, a shower was bliss, regardless of the fact it was only a narrow glass stall. The water was hot and there was soap, which seemed laughably luxurious.

Blood, diluted pink, washed down his chest from his nose. He shouldn’t have touched Bruce like that, shouldn’t have tried to hold him down. Still, he felt far worse for his sharpest memory, of the weight of Bruce on top of him, straddling his hips. Despite the guilty ache in his chest, he struggled to put the thought from his head. 

With an angry twist, Clark turned the tap to cold. After standing there a full minute, he left the shower, grabbing blindly for a towel. 

When Clark opened the door, he caught Bruce half-undressed, shirt discarded and trousers unbuttoned.

Though it had never occurred to him before, Clark realized that for all the time Bruce had spent with his hands on him, Clark had not so much as seen him without his shirt. He had had an idea of might lay beneath: bruises, now yellowing at the edges and muscle too. However, he had not expected the scars, scattered over his chest, his stomach, his shoulder, pitted and twisted in his skin. 

For a minute, he simply stood there, staring openly. Bruce glanced back at him, but didn’t speak. Briefly stooping, he slid his trousers down his thighs and stepped out of the tangle of fabric. He turned towards Clark as he approached, lifting his chin.

Rather than speaking, Clark touched him. Fingers light, he traced up the knotted scar in Bruce’s side, then an indentation in his back, a few inches above his left kidney. Chin down, he kept his eyes level with Bruce’s. “How did you get these?”

Bruce pressed his lips together, a promise of silence delivered with a hint of a smile. However, he did not pull away from him.

“You’re never going to answer me, are you?” Clark should have felt angrier than he did, angry that Bruce was still hiding things from him, when he already knew the full truth about Clark. Though he remained hungry for answers, he pushed closer, knowing full well he should pull away before he could become any more entangled in Bruce and all the secrets he kept.

Bruce let his eyelashes skim his cheeks before he met his eyes again. “I could lie to you, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Huffing out a frustrated laugh, Clark fanned out his hands across the small of Bruce’s back. He dipped so close their noses brushed before he pressed their lips together. Bruce was open to him, lips parting and tongue meeting his as he reached up to the back of Clark’s neck, keeping him close.

Step by step, Clark backed Bruce into the dresser. He pinned him there, hipbones meeting. Pushing his knee between Bruce’s thighs, he surged closer until he was pressed flush against him. All that was between them was the threadbare towel he wore around his waist and the thin fabric of Bruce’s black boxer-briefs. Through them, he could feel Bruce’s growing interest against his hip. 

Pulse fast and eyes dark, Bruce leaned back. He slid out his tongue, licking at his lower lip. Then he grabbed at the edge of the dresser and pushed away. “I should shower.”

Barely nodding, Clark let him pass, though he wanted more than he should to pull him back and hold him here. He leaned against the foot of the bed, watching as Bruce sidled into the bathroom.

With a sly glance behind him, Bruce left the door ajar, propped open by Clark’s discarded flannel shirt. Through the slit of open door, Clark caught glimpses of Bruce as he started the shower and slipped off his socks. Finally, facing away from Clark, he hooked his fingers inside his boxers and dragged them down, slowly revealing the muscular curves of his ass. Bracing himself with one hand on the wall, he left them lying on the bathmat and stepped into the shower.

Hand resting low on his stomach, it took all Clark’s resolve not to touch himself, though Bruce’s form was now blurred behind frosted glass. His erection pressed uncomfortably at the towel, the cloth rough against sensitive flesh. Mouth dry, he hesitated a moment longer before leaving the bed, though he did not doubt the invitation Bruce had given.

Casting the towel aside, Clark yanked open the shower door. He immediately crowded Bruce against the tiled wall, his hands braced on either side of his head. “Took you long enough,” Bruce smirked up at him and again, Clark kissed him, only this time Bruce did not pull away.

Instead, Bruce let his head fall back, curling one arm around Clark’s shoulders. Nipping at Clark’s lips, he slid his hand further down, grasping Clark’s ass, drawing him closer. As if it were practiced, their bodies fit together again, but now there was no cloth between them. Now, Clark could feel the heat of Bruce’s cock as they pressed together.

Thrusting slowly, Bruce encouraged him into a gentle, slippery rhythm. He groaned as Clark’s mouth found his throat, teeth nicking his skin. Quickly Bruce grew rougher as they ground together, friction growing despite the spray of water.

Panting, Bruce forced a hand between their stomachs, halting their churning hips. He took both their cocks in his hand, fingers squeezing tight. He stroked them fast, his teeth gritted even as Clark kissed him.

Moaning, Clark thrust up into Bruce’s fist, shutting his eyes against the slick friction between Bruce’s fingers and his cock. He bowed his head, nearly resting on Bruce’s shoulder as he felt warm tension build near his stomach.

With a sudden shudder, Bruce came against him, hips slowing with a final stutter. His fist was still tight and his cock still hard for the few moments more it took for Clark to get himself off against him. Leaning forwards, he finally let his head fall on Bruce’s chest.

Bruce dropped his hand. Almost immediately, the sticky splatter of their cum was rinsed from his skin. Raising his head, Clark took him in his arms, one wrapped tight around his shoulders and the other at his waist. He held him there, measuring his breath, and waited for Bruce’s own breath to slow.

* * *

As they toweled dry, Bruce’s eyes settled on the wound in Clark’s chest. “I can clean that up for you,” he offered. “I just need to go get the first aid kit.”

For a split second, Clark contemplated telling him not to bother. The mark was already largely healed, and no longer very painful. However, for entirely selfish reasons, he wanted Bruce to remain close, to keep touching him. Clark made no move to stop him as he dragged his trousers back on and forced his bare feet into his half-ruined dress shoes. Hunching his shoulders against the cool evening air, Bruce ducked back outside.

When he returned, Clark was lounging across the foot of the bed. He had made no attempt to dress himself in the time Bruce had been outside, only turning down the covers to lay on the sheets. Bruce had seen him act as nothing more than human for two days, weak, injured and in need of his aid. But with almost entirely unmarked skin , lines of effortlessly powerful muscle underneath and his dark hair just beginning to curl around his ears, it was hard to see him as that same man.

Carrying with him the first aid kit and their plastic bag of toiletries, Bruce ducked back into the bathroom. Moments later, he returned, the harsh smell of cheap soap still stinging his nostrils. With newly clean hands, he gently began to tend to the puncture wound. 

The wound itself was healing well, the edges the light, bright pink of new skin. The surrounding flesh, once swollen, was now only reddened, and by Clark’s reactions, no longer tender to the touch. 

As Bruce worked, his eyes wandered, searching for other injuries, other flaws in his perfect skin. The broad scrape of road rash on his arm and shoulder w as missing, and bruises no longer showed on his abdomen. In fact, it did not just appear as if he had been healed, for no little scabs, or soft scars, or yellowed skin remained. Instead, Clark’s skin was all flawless, as if it had never been torn or even touched.

“Come here,” Clark reached out, but waited before touching him. “Let me take care of you.” He nodded towards the fresh scrape on Bruce’s cheek.

“That’s not necessary.” Bruce leaned away, tossing the cotton he had used to clean Clark’s wound in the trash.

“You’ve been taking care of me this whole time. Let me help you.”

Bruce remained in place at the side of the bed, his  stance wide , apparently unswayed. Then marginally, he gave in, climbing up  onto the mattress , sitting up against the headboard and reaching for the remote.

Crawling up the bed to lean over Bruce, Clark gently put his fingers to Bruce’s face. Steadily, the bruises around his eye socket were healing, leaving his skin tinged with an unhealthy-looking jaundice. Now there was also a new scrape from their  parking lot tussle, roughed over his left cheek . Bruce winced at his first touch, but otherwise showed little reaction to the sting of the peroxide. 

Clark half-watched the television as he kept his hands on Bruce. The  first  story of the evening was theirs, or rather Bruce’s. There was file footage of him speaking in Gotham City before a clip of his ransom video was shown. Clark turned his back to the screen, though he could not shield his ears from the harsh catch in Bruce’s breathing that came through the speakers.

Fingers hovering an inch over the darkest bruise in  Bruce’s side, Clark paused. With some trouble, he focused his gaze enough to peer beneath Bruce’s skin.

“You’re lucky your ribs weren’t fractured,” Clark informed him, frowning.

Briefly, surprise crossed Bruce’s face at the new demonstration of his abilities, before he shrugged lightly. “I’ve had worse before.”

The scars now under Clark’s fingertips were clear proof of that, but still he asked the question he knew he wouldn’t get an answer to. “When?”

Rolling his eyes in reply, Bruce scuffed at the heel of his shoe, easing  it  off after a moment’s struggle.

Silently, Clark continued. One at a time, he took Bruce’s hands in his, cleaning the deep cuts at his wrists, then his raw knuckles. Bruce did not complain as the liquid bubbled in his wounds, but his hands grew shaky, fingers trembling as the substance did its work.

Through the hole torn in Bruce’s trousers, Clark found his skinned knee next. He picked at the tattered clothing, trying to get a better look at the injury.

“Don’t worry about that.” Bruce shifted his leg away, eyes still on the television.

“It’s dirty.”

Grimacing at the television, Bruce was still for a moment, before relenting. Sighing, he tossed the remote on the other bed and reached for his fly. Arching his back, he lifted his hips up off the bed, pushing his trousers down his legs to his ankles, where he finally kicked them off onto the floor. 

Gently, Clark drew Bruce’s leg into his lap, holding his ankle loosely. He slid his hand up, until he grasped at the underside of Bruce’s muscular calf. He turned Bruce’s leg to the side, until the full extent of the bloody scrape was revealed. Though the wound was only superficial, the broad expanse of raw and scabbed flesh, from Bruce’s knee down two thirds of his shin, made Clark wince.

Upon closer inspection, Clark discovered that what he had previously mistaken as dirt were instead small chunks of asphalt imbedded in Bruce’s skin. He plucked each one free with tweezers, while Bruce kept one hand balled into a fist on the mattress. Bruce hissed when Clark applied the peroxide to the deep, raw indentations the asphalt left behind.

“Sorry,” Clark murmured, setting the bottle down on the bedside table. He dipped down briefly to press his lips to the unmarked skin just above Bruce’s knee. Then he lifted his head to tease, “I can’t imagine how you’d handle anything worse than a scrape.”

“I do better than you think.” Bruce extended his leg, laying his foot across Clark’s thighs.

Clark raised his eyebrows doubtfully at him, and was almost unsettled by the blackness of the grin he received in return. Bending his ankle, Bruce pressed the flat of his foot against Clark’s cock. Holding his gaze, he rubbed along his length, giving him just enough pressure to begin to get him hard again.

Tightening his grip on Bruce’s calf, Clark yanked him closer, dragging him down the mattress. His arms outstretched above him, Bruce gladly surrendered. 

Now, Clark lifted the captive limb, raising his leg in the air before finally pressing his knee up towards his shoulder. He tried to lean close, but found Bruce’s unrestrained leg in the way, half-raised and knee jutting into his stomach. Capturing the limb, he pushed both into Bruce’s chest, spread just enough that he could settle between them, bare chest resting again Bruce’s own.

As Clark again leaned forwards, Bruce pulled him down, one hand tight in his hair. Clark found his lips again, parting easily for his tongue. When he dared to draw back, Bruce bit into his lower lip, stretching the skin taut. The pain no longer enough to deter him, Clark pulled away, Bruce’s teeth skidding ineffectually along his skin.

He returned the bite, teeth digging into Bruce’s neck. Bruce groaned and tipped his head back, exposing his throat. He combed his fingers through Clark’s hair as Clark mouthed at the resulting mark.

Pressed flush against Bruce, Clark could feel the hardness growing against his stomach. “Bruce, can I-” he mumbled, his question half-lost as Bruce lifted up to kiss him. “Is there anything we could use for-”

“There’s lube in the plastic bag with the toothbrushes.” Bruce lay back on the bed, breathless and impatient.

“You bought lube?” The detail was enough to distract Clark, its implications fascinating. He did not immediately move to fetch it, but sat back on his heels, looking down at Bruce. “So, you’ve been thinking about this.” Clark smiled, that thought itself enough to make his cock twitch. “Planning it.”

“Possibly.” Bruce tipped his head, reluctant to make the admission outright.

“When did you buy it?” Clark pressed him, smile turning towards smirk.

Bruce rolled his eyes, but still answered, “Last night.” When Clark did not immediately rise, Bruce fidgeted beneath him. “Are you going to fuck me or not?”

Grinning, Clark pushed himself up. He turned and walked into the bathroom to scoop up the bag, completely unhurried. When he returned, he found Bruce tense, though his feet now were flat on the bed. His thighs were still splayed open and one hand rested low on his stomach, just inches above his swollen cock.

“Come on.” Bruce glared up at him, spreading his thighs a little wider in his frustration.

“What’s the hurry?” Clark popped open the cap. Rather than slick his fingers, he tipped the bottle upside down, letting a generous stream of lube trickle down Bruce’s perineum to his ass. Bruce flinched as the cool liquid reached sensitive flesh. 

“I was just hoping to get off at some point.” Despite his frown, Bruce relaxed as Clark climbed back into bed with him.

Carefully, Clark ran the tip of his index finger along the slick stripe of lube that coated Bruce’s ass. He circled the hole, smiling at the quiet moan that it got him. Finally, he sunk his finger inside him, slowly pressing through the ring of tight muscle. 

As Clark worked the digit deeper, Bruce let his head fall back. The first finger seemed easy enough for him, but the slow addition of the second and third brought something close to pain down to wrinkle his brow.

“Am I hurting you?” Clark pressed his lips to the crease in his forehead.

“It’s fine-” Bruce’s breath hitched at the end of the word. His voice grew rougher. “I’m ready.”

Spreading his fingers inside him, Clark stretched him a little wider. Bruce rocked down, impaling himself further on his fingers. “Clark. Come on.”

Slowly, Clark withdrew his fingers, eyes fixed on the way Bruce’s body clung to the digits. He rubbed his thumb over the hole, then he hitched Bruce’s legs up over his shoulders, dragging him a few inches closer. One hand to his cock, Clark pressed inside him.

Easily, the slick muscle parted again, squeezing tightly at his cock. Bruce screwed his eyes shut, a half-pained moan slipping through his gritted teeth. Steadily, Clark pressed deeper ,  lowering himself until Bruce’s knees were pressed up against his chest and trapped there. Propping himself up on his forearms, Clark watched his face.

“Fuck.” Bruce was panting now, cheeks flushed. His eyes flickered open, gaze quickly finding Clark’s as he slid into him.

When he was fully seated inside Bruce, Clark kissed him, parting his lips with his tongue. He both heard and felt Bruce’s groan as he muffled it with the press of his mouth. Bruce lifted his hands, bringing both up to grasp at Clark’s back.

“Is this okay?” Clark struggled to hold still, though Bruce’s breath was ragged. His body was hot and tight around him as he lowered his head to Bruce’s shoulder, trying to find some center for himself.

Stubbornly, Bruce refused to ask for a moment for himself, even as he shifted incrementally under him. He angled his hips a little higher, gasping as Clark slid into him just a fraction of an inch further. “Yes,” he belatedly answered. Relieved, Clark began to move inside him.

Though reluctant at first, Bruce’s body soon yielded to Clark’s thrusts. Eager to return the favor that Bruce had paid him, Clark took his cock in his hand. Bruce’s nails scrabbled along invulnerable skin as he hid his moans behind his teeth.

Stroke by stroke, Bruce’s control slipped until finally he whimpered, “Shit,” pressing himself up into his fist. He came then, slick in Clark’s hand and back arching off the mattress.

For  several long  seconds, Bruce was so unbearably tight that Clark could barely move inside him. Shuddering, he slowly relaxed, hands resting on Clark’s shoulders.

Clark barely felt the lightness of his touch as heat built in his stomach. He thrust harder, just at the edge of restraint.  When h e came,  he buried his face in Bruce’s neck as he spilled into him

Panting, Clark lay slumped down on top of Bruce. Then, groaning quietly, he slowly lifted himself up. After softly pressing his lips to Bruce’s, he began to pull out. Still shaking through his afterglow, Bruce did not try to suppress his whine as Clark’s cock left him.

Bruce began to doze as, briefly, Clark worried over him, doing his best to clean up the mess they had made. Eventually, he climbed back into bed, pulling Bruce into his arms and pressing gentle kisses along his neck.

* * *

It was still night when Bruce awoke, blinking away the muzzle flash of his dream. Lifting his head, he found Clark curled around him, all the sheets and blankets twisted down around his knees. In sleep, his eyebrows were knitted together, as if his dreams were also troubled.

Careful not to disturb him, Bruce shifted out of his arms, lifting himself to sit at the edge of the mattress When he glanced back, he found Clark’s eyes open, watching him blearily. Bruce stepped out of bed and into the bathroom.

He splashed water over his face, cleansing the cold sweat that had gathered on his brow. Then, head down and leaning against the sink, he waited for Clark to fall back asleep.

When Clark’s breathing slowed, he  ventured  back out into the room,  find ing his way through the dark to the thinly upholstered armchair. He grabbed his shirt along the way and pulled it on before he sank down into the seat. 

Guilt stretched tight across Bruce’s chest. He had been away from Gotham too long. He was wasting time like this. He shouldn’t have spent the night here with Clark. He should have driven them both straight to California, without stopping on the way. He should have never allowed himself to indulge in-

There was a rustling of sheets as Clark turned over and propped himself up. Swiping his badly mussed hair out of his eyes, he asked, “You alright?” 

Bruce pressed his head back against the chair. Clark must have been listening to him, ears sensitive enough to pick up his heartrate. Bruce took a deep breath, controlling himself.

“Fine.” Clark hardly looked reassured, so Bruce continued, “Just can’t sleep.”

The look on Clark’s face did not change; he clearly did not believe him. But instead of pressuring him f or an answer , he sat up and turned on the light. “D’you want to get breakfast?”

* * *

The waitress at the diner called Bruce “hun” repeatedly. Bemused, Clark watched as he frowned behind her back each time she left their table. Other than that small expression he was silent and withdrawn as they ate. Clark let him brood, staring into his orange juice, wondering just what it was that disturbed him. He didn’t dare ask, not here, and maybe not ever.

The hazy blue predawn still hung in the sky when they climbed back into the SUV. Clark stopped Bruce’s hand before he could turn the engine over. When Bruce glanced over at him questioningly, he merely leaned over the armrest and kissed him.

The tension that had been set in Bruce’s shoulders passed as he relaxed against Clark. His mouth was still sweet with syrup when Clark had the chance to taste him, and it was difficult to find the conviction to sit back even to let Bruce breathe.

Leaning against the headrest, Bruce stared at him for a few long seconds before turning to face the road. He wet his lips. “Ready?”

* * *

A winding road took them south, out of the mountains. It was largely deserted, narrow and unmarked. Rapidly it took them out of the sparse forest into scrubland. Occasionally, valleys opened between the peaks, filled with knee-high grass and a few grazing horses.

Traffic began to pick up as they traveled down the final mountainside. Below, the land was a broad, flat expanse of desert, its floor paved a soft grey-pink.

After they turned west, Clark spotted the first signs for cities in California. They would make it there by evening, and then this whole journey would be at its end. Leaning back in his seat, Clark could not help but wonder how quickly Bruce would fly back to Gotham, how quickly he might rid himself of him.

Clark did not see the SUV until they had passed it, it was so hidden by an overgrown driveway. But as soon as he spotted it, he called out, “Bruce!”

“I see them,” Bruce responded tightly, already accelerating. Clark gripped at the grab bar. There was little else he could do, other than watch what was around them. He knew well that he was not at full power yet, that he wouldn’t be much help outside the vehicle.

Already, they were well ahead of the SUV, taking full advantage of the seconds it took for the other vehicle to accelerate from a stop. Twisting in his seat to watch their pursuers, Clark could see them struggling to catch up. Bruce wove in and out of traffic, putting more and more distance between them. They had a hope of outrunning them, Clark thought. Bruce had done it before.

As that thought revolved hopefully in his head, Bruce braked hard. Clark turned forwards in time to see another SUV come hurtling out onto the road, perpendicular to their path. Despite Bruce’s best efforts, it clipped the front right end of the vehicle.

The impact came all too fast. One instant, Clark sat braced against the car door, clinging to the grab bar. Then the vehicle was skidding off the road, turning on its side as it left the embankment. It rolled, end over end over end. Clark’s head struck the ceiling. Everything seemed loud, but Bruce was silent beside him.

Clark was slow, so slow compared to what he used to be. Just a week ago, he could have been out of the vehicle in a blur of red and blue. He could have stopped the vehicle midroll and carried it on his shoulders. Now, he had no hope of such a feat.

Nevertheless, Clark ripped at his seatbelt, then tore off his flannel shirt to show the bloodied symbol on the t-shirt underneath. He came free while they were still in the air. Momentum carried him forwards, striking and breaking the windshield. Seizing at the hood of the SUV, Clark barely managed to keep from slamming into the rough desert pavement. His fists crumpled and tore the metal, but he still held on.

They skidded to a stop, the whole vehicle resting upside down. Clark released his grip on the SUV, falling briefly to his knees. His reprieve lasted only for a second, before he looked up.

Above him, Bruce hung limply from his seatbelt. A half-inflated airbag pressed him back in his seat. “Bruce?” Clark reached up to touch him. He found his pulse, resting gentle fingers against his throat. Clark let the sound fill his ears in the quiet after the crash. Blood trickled onto his hand, and Clark quickly found the source, a wound in the side of Bruce’s head. 

Climbing back up into the vehicle, Clark ripped the seatbelt webbing that held Bruce in place. He caught him when he came free, gathering him in his arms. As he did, Clark found another injury, a deep jagged gash in Bruce’s thigh, where the cracked plastic of the door had torn into his leg. Clark dragged out his cape from under the seat, pressing it into the wound.

A muted crack shattered the silence. Reflexively, Clark curled around Bruce, shielding him from the threat. A dart pierced the upholstery just left of his shoulder.

Clark ran. He had no other choice. Other SUVs were circling them now, raising clouds of dust in the desert. He could not fight them and still get Bruce to safety.

Though he lacked his full speed, Clark easily leapt past them, back onto the shoulder of the roadway. His strides took him hundreds of yards at a time, outpacing the cars beside them. Led by his ears, he found the closest place that might help Bruce.

* * *

The nurse at the tiny hospital in the nearest town recognized Superman despite his tattered shirt. Clark was grateful for this as it made it far easier to explain why he was carrying an injured billionaire through the California desert. Bruce was quickly taken inside, leaving him alone in the waiting room.

There was  only one thing left for Clark to do. It allowed him the smallest of distractions , so he readily stepped outside. Pacing along the short sidewalk  in front of  the hospital, he flipped open the phone and dialed the  number printed by Bruce’s hand .

The call was picked up immediately. “Alfred Pennyworth. How may I be of service?”

“This is-” Clark hesitated. He was still wearing the shirt after all. “Superman.”

“Yes, Master Wayne said you might call.” Alfred ’s reply was flat, controlled, despite the underlying tension in his voice.

Clark exhaled. “Bruce is in the hospital.”

The telephone was barely sensitive enough to pick up the slight intake of breath on the other line. Only Clark would be able to hear the barest crackle of a sudden inhale. But when Alfred spoke again, the calm in his voice had returned. “I see. May I have the name of hospital?”

* * *

In little more than an hour, Alfred was there. Clark recognized him immediately, although he had only, rarely, seen him in the background of photos of Bruce Wayne. 

He stood out the most for being the only man in the ER waiting room in a three-piece suit. He was thin and somewhat short. A mustache sat beneath quickly receding salt and pepper grey hair. In a few brisk strides, he made his way to the receptionist’s desk and speedily made his introduction.

And while Clark had been forced to wait outside, Alfred was ushered to Bruce’s bedside immediately. He passed Clark with a quick nod, before stepping through the key coded door that Clark had been told quite clearly that he was not allowed to  pass.

The other dozen people in the waiting room kept a distance from Clark, as if not quite certain he was real. Clark could guess that he looked like hell, his already ripped shirt now only barely recognizable as  the Superman ’s . He had been to California during an earthquake once, and for several forest fires, but no one in these parts had ever seen him outside of a television screen.

Rolling his head on his shoulders, Clark sat back in the flimsy chair. He waited, trying not to eavesdrop. However, it was only a few minutes before the woman behind the  reception desk stood and caught his eye. “You can go in.” 

The locked door swung open, and Clark hustled through.

Down the hallway, Clark could already hear Bruce’s voice. His tongue sounded thick with medication, but the tone was unmistakable. He was arguing with Alfred, the same, no-nonsense tone he had adopted more than once with Clark.

“There’s no need for me to stay. I’m more than well enough to go now.” 

Clark could see him, for the first time since he had been taken from out of his arms and onto a gurney. He was propped up in a hospital bed, all the curtains pulled back. A thick wad of gauze was taped to his left temple, the barest red of blood visible beneath the dressing. The larger wound in his leg was hidden beneath his hospital gown, printed with red and blue balloons. 

The relief hit  Clark  so suddenly it nearly crushed his chest, and for a second  he  struggled to contain a sound that threatened to burst forth, something quite like a sob. While injured, Bruce was alive, and as much like himself as  he had been  over the past few days and nights. His eyes were sharp and currently locked on the much older man who stood disapprovingly at his bedside. 

Now, Alfred looked up at Clark as he approached. He offered a wry, frustrated smile. “I apologize for not introducing myself earlier, sir. My name is Alfred Pennyworth and I’m Master Wayne’s-”

“Butler,” Bruce cut in, sulking.

“Legal guardian.”

“Adults don’t have legal guardians.”

“What would you rather I call myself? Legal executor of your will? You might need one soon, if you don’t listen to the doctor’s advice.”

“I’ve had worse.” Regardless of his rebellion, Bruce momentarily rested his head back against the pillows. “Alfred, I can’t stay. I’m sure that they’ve called the police by now and someone will come in here asking how I got here, and I don’t have time for-”

“Bruce-” Clark attempted to cut him short.

“-that shit. They could-”

“Bruce,” Clark raised his voice. “I already talked to the police.”

He was surprised by how little Bruce’s expression changed. No relief came, if anything his expression hardened a s  he set his jaw. “What did you tell them?”

“I couldn’t tell them the truth,” Clark began cautiously, put off by his tone, “so I told them I rescued you from your kidnappers and you were injured during the escape.”

“We’ll have to hope that’s good enough then.” Bruce swung his uninjured leg over the side of the bed, turning his back on Clark. “Alfred, will you hand me my clothes?”

“As I’ve said, I think you ought to remain in the hospital overnight. The doctor advised-”

With a grunt, Bruce shifted his wound ed leg off the bed. He stood, barely able to put weight on his injury, and limp slowly towards the bag that sat on the nearest chair which held  his clothes. 

“Master Bruce- ”  Alfred started forwards, uncertain if he could maintain his balance. Clark stepped close, hand to Bruce’s shoulder, steadying him. Bruce glanced down at the hand, and for a few seconds Clark thought he might push it away. However, he allowed the contact as he awkwardly began to dress himself.

It took both Clark and Alfred to get Bruce out to the car that Alfred  brought . Side by side,  Bruce and Clark  sat together in the back, Bruce’s leg stretched out stiffly in front of him. Over aware of Alfred just feet away, Clark did not dare talk to Bruce the way he wanted to. 

Chewing at his tongue, he turned towards the window. He doubted Bruce would even appreciate it if he could find the words to explain how worried he had been, how glad he was that  Bruce  was alive. How he was beginning to suspect, despite Bruce’s best efforts to keep him at arm’s length, their journey together had led him to form some attachment to him.

Beside him, Bruce sank back in his seat. He lacked his usual edge of alertness, sharp eyes blurred by medication. He shut his eyes as if to doze, but his breathing never slowed to true sleep.

Leaning against the window, Clark let the scenery outside blur before his eyes as they traveled west. 

* * *

As Bruce had told him, the house stood above the beach. However, it was nothing like what Clark had pictured. When they drove up, along a winding road between broad estates, he had looked for a sharply modern building, new construction, blocky shapes and concrete. Instead, they drove up a long gravel drive, towards a thick-walled Spanish Colonial home. 

Following obediently behind Alfred, Clark helped Bruce to his bedroom. He left him alone there, hoping that he might get some rest, though Bruce hardly seemed willing to comply.

Alfred found him just outside Bruce’s door. “Is there anything I might get for you, sir?”

“Uh, no. I’m fine,” Clark refused the  offer , smiling nervously. 

“I’ll be in the kitchen then, in case you or Master Wayne need anything.”

“Thank you.” Clark nodded. After Alfred turned and left, he stood alone in the hallway, lost over what he should do next.

The interior of the house was laid out like a series of settings for a magazine. Though the building was well looked after, it clearly was seldom used. It had an emptiness, a lifelessness that made Clark’s skin crawl. 

He was drawn to the courtyard, through a set of glass-paneled doors. The afternoon sun was just high enough to spill over the low rooftop and onto the red clay tile. Gladly, Clark stepped out into its light, letting the strength of its rays seep into him.

Clark remained there in the sun until shadows overtook the courtyard. New energy in his veins, he ducked back inside to check on Bruce.

Inside, Bruce’s room was empty, the bed barely touched. While that might have been enough to frustrate his search for him days ago, Clark only had to stretch out his senses to find him. He heard his breath in some space below him, though he struggled to  guess  how Bruce could have gotten there.

Scanning the walls, Clark went room to room, finally finding a hollow in the wall of the study, just to the left of the desk. There, a narrow passageway led back to an elevator shaft. That still left a wall standing in front of it, and as curious as he was, Clark  decided it would be impolite to simply break through it . Instead, he put his fingers to it, trying to see if it could slide away, if there was some secret to obtaining entry.

Pressed close to the wall, Clark paused, squinting at a tiny hole in  it . It occurred to him that there might be some other confirmation required for entry, possibly a retinal scan, or maybe Bruce was simply watching him.

Abruptly, the wall slid sideways, showing a short, bare hallway leading to the elevator shaft. Tentatively, Clark stepped inside. The elevator came smoothly up, a simple platform surrounded by waist-high railings. 

In a matter of seconds, the elevator carried him down to a broad, seemingly artificial cavern, carved just above the water table. The space was largely empty, bearing a circular platform Clark thought might be intended for some sort of vehicle. Its surface was engraved with a familiar motif, the symbol of Batman.

A sparsely-lit alcove was just to his right, its wall hung with a semicircle of monitors. A trio of cables ran down the back of the space, into a  hollow  beneath the platform that sounded with the low hum of fans.

His leg propped up on a spare chair, Bruce sat in front of the monitors. He held the keyboard in his lap as he scrolled through a dozen mugshots he had assembled in front of him.

Clark hesitated, feeling strongly that he should apologize for the intrusion. “Bruce, I’m sorry, I wanted to–”

“Don’t bother.” Bruce didn’t look up from the monitors. “You guessed  who I was days ago. You don’t need to humor me.”

Clark shut his mouth. Certainly, he had suspected him, ever since learning Bruce Wayne had a remarkable ability in hand to hand contact. And long before that, he had known that Bruce Wayne was funding vigilantism, but that wasn’t anywhere near the same as this.

“You’re Batman.”

“That’s right.” Though Bruce still did not face him, Clark caught his eyeroll. He stepped closer, looking at Bruce’s work. Already, he had assembled a list of the men who had taken them captive, complete with mugshots. “But that’s not why I let you down here.” Bruce lifted his keyboard, setting it back up on his desk. With a few keystrokes, his collage of suspects disappeared, replaced by a map of Gotham City.

“Clark. I need to tell you something.” Bruce slowly spun his chair towards him. Bracing himself heavily against the desk, he stood. “I allowed them to kidnap me.”

“I guessed that.” Clark had certainly suspected as much. “I just don’t understand why.”

Wincing slightly, Bruce shifted his weight. “I wanted to learn about you, but you’re a hard man to reach. I thought if I  let  m yself be kidnapped , it’d be an easy introduction. I didn’t mean for them to hurt you.” He hesitated, seeming to struggle before his guilt finally won out. “I’m sorry.”

Over the long journey, Clark had had time to think, to sift over the repercussions of his suspicions. There were a dozen different ways this whole adventure could have played out, and it was impossible to think that ending up with Bruce at his side wasn’t one of the very best outcomes.

“You realize they could have done the same thing with anyone else that they picked up off the street. I would have come after anyone, and because I wasn’t careful enough, they still would have shot me with kryptonite.” Bruce was shaking his head, but Clark did not allow him to interrupt. “Bruce, I wouldn’t have been able to escape without you there. You  _rescued_ me.”

“It’s difficult to call it a ‘rescue’ since it was my fault you were there in the first place, but-”

“Bruce-”

“-but if that’s how you see it then I’m not-”

Closing the gap between them, Clark pressed their lips together tenderly. He held him close, one hand cupping his cheek, the other at his waist to support him. One hand twisted in his shirt, Bruce leaned into him, kissing him.

Bruce leaned back slowly, catching his breath. He looked up at Clark, hand still on his chest. “I’m flying back to Gotham in the morning.” As Clark nodded, Bruce drew in another long breath. “You can come with me if you’d like. I’m going to look into this to see if I can prove that Luthor was behind it.”

Clark would like that, would love nothing more than to stay with Bruce until he tired of him, but instead he said, “No. Thank you, but no. I need to go back to Metropolis. I’ll see what I can learn there.” As Bruce began to withdraw, Clark stopped him with one gentle hand on Bruce’s arm. “But I could stay the night.”

**Author's Note:**

> As you can probably tell, I love road trips. Here's a link to all the places they went on the Arizona leg of their trip: [map](https://www.google.com/maps/dir/34.1607645,-109.055612/Show+Low,+AZ/Pine,+Arizona/Fossil+Creek,+AZ/Camp+Verde,+AZ/Cottonwood,+AZ/Jerome,+AZ/Mingus+Summit+Rest+Area+%2F+Picnic+Site,+Jerome,+AZ/Prescott,+AZ/I-10,+Quartzsite,+AZ+85346/@34.2098081,-112.6918522,8z/am=t/data=!3m1!4b1!4m57!4m56!1m0!1m5!1m1!1s0x872f2905cd3521f7:0xc60fd8f7ee55d508!2m2!1d-110.0298327!2d34.2542084!1m5!1m1!1s0x872c3f389d52d459:0xf087eff6c38a4f49!2m2!1d-111.4551407!2d34.3844739!1m5!1m1!1s0x872c4356efe58bd7:0x8a8e5d0b309aea7!2m2!1d-111.6661437!2d34.3459523!1m5!1m1!1s0x872c555ea76722fd:0x58a7f8b6da12b349!2m2!1d-111.8543178!2d34.5636358!1m5!1m1!1s0x872d050bb7f1ce79:0x702c0500cea3770!2m2!1d-112.0098791!2d34.7391876!1m5!1m1!1s0x872d0f906de9e79b:0xf663f24f2b55668b!2m2!1d-112.1137716!2d34.7489107!1m5!1m1!1s0x872d1753d3535925:0x4c47824074d50a49!2m2!1d-112.1485861!2d34.7080848!1m5!1m1!1s0x872d28d400717ceb:0x9a43de752eefedd!2m2!1d-112.4685025!2d34.5400242!1m5!1m1!1s0x8657bace100c1809:0x3083c55e9eefc4a3!2m2!1d-114.0812389!2d33.6790403!3e0)


End file.
